Inheritance


20.

As a youngling, I learned an aphorism or a mantra for every situation, every possible turn of fate's wheel. The Jedi tradition is millenia old, and like a broad and stately river, that tradition has deposited a rich sediment of collective wisdom along its meandering banks. All we who grew into first maturity within the sheltering confines of the Temple are carried along in those same currents, swept up against those same shores as our forebears, re-learning their same lessons, often repeating their very words, albeit in a chorus of lisping and innocent voices. It is a boundless estate, bequeathed without attachment to numberless heirs. But here, it would seem, that river has not yet carved its channel.

Anakin Skywalker is something novel, an unprecedented event. Even Quinlan Vos – Force preserve us – is staid and ordinary by comparison to this upstart miracle from the Outer Rim, this unparalleled genius, this imbalance who will bring balance. There has never been anything like him. There may never be again. The tradition has not yet encompassed his like; and there are days when I begin to think that history's floodwaters may rise at his beck and call, cover th eentire galaxy in an unprecedented deluge and obliterate all that has come before. He is unique.

And so, where he is concerned, I have no timeless adage to quote.

Not that I couldn't provide a few pointed extemporaneous remarks on the subject, myself. But that would hardly qualify as serene Jedi insight, now would it?

"Lord Jedi! Lord Jedi!"

Oh dear. This particular misnomer is growing tiresome, almost as tiresome as the perpetual race to outstrip my Padawan's foolishness. But I am intrigued – for she is the first Feorian woman I have seen since we arrived. And she is waving me into the warmth of her lowly dwelling, both scrawny arms extended in the universal gesture of welcome.

And the Force, however disturbed, is chiming in silent accord. So I turn, and approach the Feorian matron, and dip my head as we pass beneath the low-set lintel of her squat doorway.

Inside, the mud-packed walls have captured the warmth of the central oven – little more than an enclosed fire pit built of stone and brick. The low roof seems to brood over us like a mother bird over its eggs, an almost smothering proximity. And there are more than a dozen of the village's older females gathered here, cooking implements and the tools of some odd fiber-craft I do not recognize clasped between their knobby fingers, pieces of half-finished cloth draped over knees here and there, the scent of baking grain thick in the close air. They are every one of them staring at me with open admiration.

A deep bow covers my confusion. I hope.

"Tis he! Tis the same!" my hostess informs the beaming crowd. "'Tis the young Jedi lord, from Marshak's vile fortress! He who saved us with the other! He is come to visit us again, you see?"

Oh. Oh. Well. I can't really deny being myself, can I? "Yes. It is a great honor to be welcomed by you again," I reply. There are standard responses for this sort of thing – diplomatic protocol and precedent amply cover such entanglements. "We come to serve."

A few of the others have drawn near, and more than one pair of arthritic hands is fiddling with my cloak hems.

"I remember thee!" one of the crones smiles, her face rumpling into a wealth of fine, papery lines. "Thy name, too! Pada-Wan."

Close enough, I suppose. I don't waste energy making burdensome corrections.

"Where is the other Jedi? The tall one? How we loved him!"

"He is …one with the Force." I cannot bring myself to say more, not in the face of such enthusiasm, the spectacle of such a rare joy.

"You see! The other lord Jedi speaks with the Force itself, in council like an elder. He is a noble one. Thou must love him as we do, so much!"

It is uncommonly hot beneath the low rafters, is it not? Uncomfortably so.

The original Feorian is now bustling forward, pushing aside some of her less timid sisters. In her arms she bears a long swath of decorated cloth, a textured stretch of fibers, twisted and knotted and interwoven in a complex pattern. I know from a cursory study of Feorian culture that this is a traditional art-form, a semi-sacred artifact. She proffers it to me, both thin arms outstretched in solemn ritual.

"For he – Qui-Jinn. Thou will give it to him, from us, yes? Five years have we woven it, and the story of our gratitude is knotted in to each row. This is the ancient way…. but also," and here she leans closer, conspiratorial, "New craft we have put into it. For our new life. A different life now, one that Qui-Jinn earned for us."

The cloth is much heavier than I would have guessed, but soft as down. Its thickly corded surface drapes over my hands, the twined fibers painstakingly bound, each by hand, a soft learner's plait. Much hard work has gone into the weaving. I should know.

"Thou will take it to him for us?"

Jedi do not accept gifts. I am honored by your generosity, but our Code forbids the acceptance of such offerings. To have served is sufficient reward for us; there is no need for such gifts and honors. I –

But the words stick in my throat. They gaze, expectant. And I know full well that Qui-Gon Jinn would have graciously, and without hesitation, accepted this communal work of their hearts and hands. And I would have then upbraided him for his violation of the precepts. And he would have then have commanded that the gorgeous blanket – for that is what it is – pass into my ownership, and use, upon pain of his severe displeasure. And I would have objected stridently to the object lesson. And he would have smiled in that calm, infuriating way of his, and informed me that I still had much to learn.

I do not deny it.

"I cannot take this gift to him; he is with the Force," I repeat. Deep centering breath. "Dead."

They brush this aside. "Then thou will take it for him and keep it until thou see him again. For great friends thou were with him, yes?"

The air in the very small house is suffocating. There are far too many bodies jammed into such a close space. "I… " -For stars' sake, Kenobi, get a grip - " …We are both honored by your gift, and by the friendship of the Feorian people."

They nod and mutter and beam upon me, well satisfied. The bestower of this incomparable treasure pats my elbow soothingly. "Sent a nursemaid to thy boy, we did. Better will she know how to soothe a child than thee, Pada-Wan."

Good. I hope she is a purveyor of nasty-tasting medicines. "Thank you," I say, working my way toward the exit, slipping backward as the throng presses forward, bowing upon the threshold. The chill air behind me sets my spine thrilling. It is freezing out on the tundra. It feels … present. Attention-riveting.

I make my escape, still holding the Feorian women's gift, a loving encomium upon my former master's virtues, wrought by some of his favorite pathetic life forms.

And it occurs to me, as I stride back toward the guest-hut, the frigid air burning harshly in my nose and throat, that I never once gave him anything of such value.

Except perhaps his dying wish.

It is blasted cold out here in the waste.