Disclaimer - People and places discovered by George Lucas and Lucasfilm belong to them.  The story and concept belongs to the author - Dark Lady.

~~  The Shaman  ~~

He came to a halt outside the cave, the steep and rocky path, barely visible in the scree that made the mountainside, zigzagging down behind him and continuing up before him.

The small pack of supplies and gifts for the hermit he took from his back and placed by his feet.  The sun was setting now and shadows lengthened along the valley floor as birds flew home to roost.  The pilgrim looked across to the mountains before him, capped with ice, reflecting shades of gold and red as the sun moved under the horizon.

Gold and red.  Like his eyes.

He closed his eyes the better to sense with the Force as he had been taught – eliminate all extraneous sensory input boy, feel it, feel it, reach out with it! - His mentors’ voice echoed in his mind.  Raising his lips, opening his mouth a little, he took a draught of air in his nostrils and at the same time over his tongue, over his palate, and into his lungs.  All black they were, black as night.

Yes!  The chill of ice, musty birds nests, fresh water from the lake at the foot of the mountain, a hint of some flower, air like wine.  He found it heady, invigorating, filled his lungs with it again and again.

The notion to sit in a posture of meditation entered his mind so he sat cross-legged, hands relaxed on his knees.  He reached out, let himself go, spread his consciousness over the valley then the mountains, again as he had been taught, finding his place within the pattern of creation.

Flickering candles, lights, rhythmic sounds, strange smokes and scents; these were not required now to enter a state of trance or alternate being, it came easily to him.

Dusk swiftly fell and the stars lit up the sky, great drifts of them sweeping across the heavens.  A star ship, only a freighter but a star ship nonetheless, ascended overhead, navigation lights winking red and blue.  His heart went with it; yearning to fly the deeps of space, see the wonders therein.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sensing a presence, opening his eyes, he saw a wizened old Zabrak seated in front of him, studying him calmly, expressionlessly.  The pilgrim lowered his head in respect, gave greeting, asked for his teaching, asked what he could give in return for his wisdom.

“Most people bring me gold or precious stones boy!”

“I have neither.  Perhaps these will be of more use to you.”

And Khameir placed the contents of the pack before the hermit – a blanket, thin and thick rope, a new knife, some cloth, thread, needles, and a set of power cells.  Oh, and a small solar still for water.

The old Zabrak touched them gently.

“Such wealth!” he murmured, “but you might get nothing boy!”

“No matter” said the boy of fifteen summers, now a grown man almost, “they are gifts, and are not conditional upon anything, anything at all.”

He had saved for these out of his meagre allowance; foregoing some much needed data-cubes in order that he might purchase these few small items, which were the best quality he could find.  He would not ask his benefactor for the means, he felt that the sacrifice was a necessary part of the exchange – it had taken many months…

The solar still had been purchased on Naboo.  Beautifully made it was, and an ingenious device, most cunningly built of a very light metal, its parts folding flat for easy carriage.  It would be very useful up in this desert.

The shaman picked it up carefully, examined its provenance, smiled, nodded, patted it, put it carefully to one side, looked at him.

“And what can a poor impoverished dirty old hermit teach someone so rich in the force then?” said the dirty old Zabrak with a little smile.

“Much I would think,” said the young man, “Oh, I can throw things, deflect objects, sense mood and the future, examine the past, and many other tricks, but that is all they are – tricks.  I had a mind to ask if opposites were really opposites or merely different aspects of the same thing.”

“Such as?”

“Destruction and creation for example?”

“Does not study of the physical universe answer your question then?  Matter is neither created nor destroyed and all that?”

“No.”

“No?  Hmmm.  Let us eat then before we tackle such momentous questions.  I have prepared enough for two Khameir Sarin, son of Khameir and Kha’reine.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The given names of his father and mother – a wave of pain and sorrow swept his heart and mind.  Three years since and still this happened when reminded of them!  He closed his eyes.

The hermit reached to him and touched his cheek, then his heart.  Khameir smelled vanilla and honey.

“Release the sorrow boy!” he whispered.  “Their shades are at peace, they watch for you and their love is with you.  You are their creation and you carry within you great gifts passed from their bodies.”

The hermit reached into a grubby little pouch at his belt and fumbled with a small container.  Some potion or unguent was placed under Khameir’s nose, a small dab which was burning on his skin, smelled bitter, then heady.

The dark sky suddenly tumbled around him, the stars falling from their positions to lie in great drifts in front of him, behind him, to the side of him.  The first moon, a pearly white luminescence, tumbled out of its orbit and rolled over the stars, the second, and smaller, golden moon followed likewise.

Their light died slowly away to nothing, the dark was intense, almost palpable, then he heard whispers, voices, babbling.  The voices swelled to a cacophony of sound, then one by one, the voices left, leaving three only.

His eyes were still closed, his hands were still now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A child’s cry, “K’mer!” and a child’s laugh.  A young child, almost a baby still, then the feel of childish fingers on his arm, pulling his sleeves, then his hands.  The laugh again, a child’s hands patted his face, playing a child’s game.

His sister?

He opened his eyes.

His sister sat on his crossed knees, laughing and patting his face, babbling his name.  Her mother, (and his) supported her, encouraged her, laughing at the play, looking at him.  Her face was serene, filled with happiness.  She smiled and stroked his cheek, caressed his face;

“My young Khameir!” she said softly, proudly.

 He looked further, saw his father standing behind the two of them.  Mother lost her balance and tumbled from her squatting position to the floor, sweeping his sister safely into her arms.  Father shook his head, smiled, and sat down beside him on the drift of cold lifeless stars.

“So all is not well with you boy!” he stated, placing his hand on Khameir’s shoulder, leaning towards him, looking into his eyes.  The warmth of his hand seeped through to his bones, comforting.  He was overwhelmed, turned his head, buried it in his fathers shoulder, held him fiercely.  Mother, anxious, put her hand on the back of his neck, her calming soothing touch passing its qualities to him.

Khameir’s father wrapped his son in his arms, resting his head next to his, was silent, passing his strength to him.

“My son, my work with you is finished.  Everything you will ever need from me you have in abundance.”

Khameir said nothing, his head was still buried in his fathers tunic, imbibing the feel of him, the strength, the scent of him, trying to make up for the years of barrenness and desolation.

Holding him, his father continued:

“My son, I have watched you, we are proud of you and we love you…” he caught his mothers’ hand, pulled her and his sister closer.

“You must lead your life in the light of what we have taught you, to love and honour is all it is, especially honour my son.  We shall always watch so do not feel alone, there is no need.  Your mother, who is my Tai Shan also, will be forever with me, for this is beyond.”

Khameir pulled his head back and his father smiled at him, touched his cheek, held his shoulders.  Then his father, who had been so reserved and dignified in life, kissed him, saying,

“And we must go.  Remember, always honour, and it will be well with you boy.”

He closed his eyes as they faded from his sight.  He smelled a tasty stew, his stomach growled in response.  Opening his eyes again – the stars and the moons were in their appointed places, his heart and mind were in repose, his soul was still.

The hermit shuffled behind him.

“Join me now, we will feast on lappet with herbs, and do you like fresh bread?”

~~~~~~~~~

Sitting in front of the small fire, on the ledge before the cave, they made conversation.

The hermit said he needed more herbs of the sort he had just used in the unguent.

Khameir replied that if it was their season he would help look for them and pluck them if he would instruct him as to their nature and appearance.

“They grow high up, my legs are not what they used to be.”

“Then instruct me, or let me be your legs, shall I carry you?  And what are these herbs?  Psychedelic?  Narcotic?”

Thus they passed the meal, wiping the last of the stew off the mismatched plates with the bread, cleaning them, and putting them away.

The hermit threw a scattering of herbs on the fire.

“More visions?”

“No, I just like the smell before I sleep, that is all.”

Khameir laughed.  “So I shall sleep out here then.” as he pulled his bedroll from his pack.

“I don’t think so boy.  It gets fiendish cold on this mountain at night.  You will need the cave.  It is warm enough, there is a solar heater.”

~~~~~~~~

Before he slept, (to the accompaniment of the snores and twitchings of his host) he dared to think of his father.  No wave of sorrow, sadness yes, but not the overwhelming grief of before.  He was truly reconciled and at peace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pilgrim had allotted five days for his journey, five days to travel from the College, to climb the mountain, to speak with the hermit, learn from his wisdom, and return.

 During the days that remained, Khameir snared and gutted lappets for the pot, gathered herbs and learned their purpose and preparation, watched the predatory nak’ha bear kill for the pure pleasure of it, and learned much arcane Zabrak lore.  He passed a day and a night naked on the mountainside in fasting and meditation, motionless, ignoring the discomforts of the flesh and raising his spirit far above the earth to which he was bound for the moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The time came when he must bid goodbye to this strange old man, this Zabrak hermit who lived alone in this wilderness, to whom pilgrims brought gold and jewels, thread and rope, and who returned with other gifts, and with riches far beyond their imagining.

They sat companionably before the small fire, contented bellies full with tasty stew and hot bread, looking at the stars, watching the constellations wheel infinitely slowly about the moonlit sky, seeing the star freighters ply their routes to strange and wondrous worlds.  The roof of the world, the summit and apex of Iridonia it seemed to them both, where earth and sky met together, and majesty strode the heavens.

Leaning back and lying on the scrubby vegetation, Khameir felt as though he were falling upward, into a well of bright stars, and the earth disappeared from his sight.  He smelled a sudden tiny hint of vanilla and honey as the hermit leaned forward and slowly scattered something on the fire.  Flame flared, there was a sharp taste of a spice and a hint of a flower, and he continued to fall upward and faster.

He heard a continuing beat, as of a drum, and it was his heart making its steady unvarying rhythm.  He started to spin and spinning, fell towards a slowly turning dark which swallowed everything, even light.

He was drawn inexorably toward the event horizon, was sucked in, and was spread thin in the vortex which chewed him up, spat him out into a rip-tide of photons, gamma, alpha and x-ray, the makings of stars.

“Life is but a circle, boy”, said the hermit.  “There is no creation without destruction, there is no destruction without creation, and one cannot exist without the other.  We are all star stuff, drawn from chaos and returning to it.”

The fire flared again and with the sudden burst of warmth, the boy again felt the mountain, the dark, and saw the stars in their places.  Saw everything ordinary, everyday.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Come the morning, the young warrior drew together his few belongings in preparation, then looked for the hermit to make his farewell and thank him for his hospitality.  There was flat bread laid ready on the small hearth, warming at the fire, and a cup of hot soup waiting, but no hermit.  There was a note.

“My advice is to study spin, and rhythm also.  These will benefit you.”

And two red gems set in ancient and beautiful settings were laid under the note, carefully wrapped and encased in a small bag of soft white leather.  They sparkled and glowed with an inner light of their own, almost alive, looking exquisite in their mounts of precious metal.

He placed them with care inside his tunic for safety, ate the bread and drank from the cup.

He bowed to the shrine of the goddess the hermit had made deep within his cave and silently gave thanks to them both, calling down blessing upon the hermit as he did so.  Then, with a lighter heart he made his way down the mountain and returned to his home, a spartan room in a military college.

~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~

© Dark Lady - 4 October  2000