Inheritance


24.

Anakin Skywalker has many yet-undiscovered talents. Here is one the Council has not yet observed: he is a talented ooz-ball player, even without any obvious use of the Force.

Look at him now – he's right at home amongst the grubby children of the galaxy's most pathetic life forms, running and leaping amid his rambunctious Feorian playmates as they rough-house their way across the squalid village courtyard. He's even clad in the same garments as they are – comfortable in rough-woven tatters and rags, as though these suit him better than traditional Jedi robes. His companions kick the stuffed animal skin with a certain unbridled savagery never seen in the Temple playrooms, even in the heat of a pitched scramball competition. Jedi younglings simply do not … shriek in such a manner. But then, none of our younglings have seen true deprivation. Not like these children can remember, or experience still. Suffering can infuse play with an unwonted intensity, a desperate and defiant edge.

I watch the ooz-ball sail high, propelled by a fierce kick. It arcs gracefully down, in the direction of a doddering Feorian elder on the courtyard's outskirts. I turn the projectile out of its disastrous trajectory with a gentle nudge of the Force, and it misses the poor fellow's head by a half meter, thudding onto the frozen soil behind him. He shuffles onward, equally oblivious both to the near-catastrophe, and to the unruly mob of contestants that surges forward to retrieve their plaything.

"I gave him permission to participate in their sport," Kenobi explains, from behind me. Am I mistaken, or does his voice convey a certain defensive tension, as well?

I turn. Does he really suppose me as dour as all that? "I presumed you warned him that an ostentatious display of his gifts might not endear him to the others?"

The taut set of his shoulders slackens, a bit. "I don't need to. He's well accustomed to keeping his Force abilities muted. On Tatooine, I think he blended in quite well with the other… under-privileged younglings. I'm afraid he's more at ease with these children than his peers at the Temple."

I nod, drawing back a pace into the warmth of our shelter. "You've been thinking about his early life."

"Somewhat."

I've waited for this opportunity patiently, and I am not about to let it go to waste. "What insight have you gained?" I ask, cautious not to seem inquisitorial. Nevertheless, I can see by his wary expression that the question is too vague, too much like a test, so I add, "Your Padawan is an exception, even within the Order. Is there some insight you have that might help the Council better judge his actions – or perhaps your own?"

Wariness is instantly replaced by alarm, and then smoothed into a determined calm. "Well," Kenobi hedges for a moment. "I think… perhaps… that during his years as a slave, Anakin came to look upon his inborn connection to the Force as a means of thwarting oppression, of circumventing rules and restrictions. He sees it as an inalienable freedom." He pauses, gauging my reaction.

"Which it is," I answer.

His mouth twists wryly. "From a certain point of view. But ever since he arrived at the Temple, I – and all his other instructors and even his peers- have been telling him that such a gift is necessarily bound to rules and limits; that his inborn ability is an obligation to serve rather than an absolution from all servitude."

I see, better than my young friend might suspect. But I let him struggle onward, clarifying the situation for both of us at once.

"He finds it difficult to reconcile the two viewpoints, master." Kenobi scowls out across the frozen square, watching the ooz-ball match unfold.

"And you find it difficult to explain the matter to him?" I guess.

"Yes," he ruefully admits. "Though I'm hoarse with trying."

I can't suppress my amusement. I'm sure he has put his utmost into expounding the seeming paradox; and by his utmost I mean an impressive display of eloquence. Kenobi is an accomplished orator.

"Some things come only with maturity, Obi-Wan," I assure him, laying my hand on his shoulder. "You might do better to save the philosophy lesson until your Padawan is a bit older."

Now his brows pull together expressively. "Qui-Gon talked to me all the time."

I nearly laugh aloud. "You talked to Qui-Gon all the time, and he had the good sense to answer. But you are a thinker. Skywalker… I'd say he's more of a doer. A good mentor shapes his teaching to fit the learner. In his case, concrete example might go further than a lecture."

"Oh….. yes." A small, embarrassed pause. "Thank you, master."

"My pleasure," I respond. "And I'll keep in mind what you've told me, next time the Council has to haul the pair of you up for reprimand. Your situation calls for certain.. nuances of judgment."

He finally meets my gaze with an open expression. There might even be a flicker of long-buried hope in his eyes, the return of a spark I haven't seen since Qui-Gon's death. "In our case, concrete example might go further than a lecture?" he offers, dead-pan.

I keep a sabaac face. "We'll see about that."

Outside, the ooz-ball competition devolves into a three-way scuffle, some common play-yard dispute with the usual complement of shouted insults and fisticuffs. Skywalker seems to be in the thick of it. Kenobi hesitates, taking a step toward the threshold and then stopping as though he has re-considered his plan to intervene. Eventually the Skywalker boy pummels one or two hotheads to the ground and barks some curt orders at the remaining players, who subside into sullen compliance and reform themselves into squads for the next round.

"His peace-keeping style is certainly straightforward," I observe, casually.

"We have been working on diplomacy, master, and –"

"I didn't say that was a bad thing." I favor the direct approach myself.

"Ah." My young companion imbues that single syllable with a world of textured meanings.

I don't need his irony. "Let's discuss this cave your apprentice discovered," I suggest. The shelter's primitive door shuts out some of the cold seeping in from outside, as well as the unbridled shrieks and cheers from the rowdy ball game.

"Yes, master." Kenobi levitates a thin palette off the room's rickety furniture onto the floor, and settles himself cross-legged upon it. "It seems to be a locus of Dark energy."

"And incalculable wealth," I concur, sitting opposite. Some might say there is little ultimate difference, and they would not be wrong – from a certain point of view. But the Dark power that emanates from that cave is no mere metaphor; my flesh has been crawling with it since we first set foot here on Outer Gola.

"Master, do you suppose this jabuur-weki might be… well, a means of coercion?"

The thought had occurred to me. The chieftain claims the monster comes for those who blaspheme the old ways and question the authority of their elders, while Yonso claims that it punishes those who would reveal his own cherished secrets. Convenient, either way. "It's possible, " I reply. Although the stricken Feorians – the purported victims of the jabuur-weki – are in a strange and inexplicable condition if they were attacked merely by their fellows. "But in that case, somebody here has an unusual weapon."

Silence expands between us, the Force rippling delicately with the echoes of an answer. We both still ourselves within its currents, seeking passively for that subtle tremor, that elusive thread of truth… but it fades, wraith-like, beneath our shared scrutiny. I exhale slowly.

"We need to go into that cave and see for ourselves," I decide.

Kenobi's mouth thins. "Yonso will not be pleased. He trusts my Padawan not to betray his secret; and that trust may be worth preserving for a while longer, at least."

True enough. "Then we must arrange a distraction. Something to keep the young Feorians occupied while we investigate."

A line appears between Kenobi's brows, but he nods in assent. "I'll put Anakin onto it. Mayhem is his specialty."