Star Wars_ Children of the Jedi - Barbara Hambly [179]
The lead rider reached the peak of the sand mountain. The bantha’s wide feet trampled the wind-sharpened edge atop the dune. The air was still, as if stunned. The sands glittered like a billion miniature novas.
Han adjusted the corroded filters over his eyes. The other banthas plodded up, surrounding their leader, who raised his cloth-wrapped arm, brandishing a wicked-looking gaffi stick. Behind the Tusken leader, his single passenger sat slumped and sullen, though it was difficult to understand the body language of these masked and alien people.
Han sensed somehow that this withdrawn passenger was the center of the ceremony. Was some kind of honor being bestowed, Han wondered, or was this man being exiled from the tribe?
The passenger slid off the lead bantha, letting himself drop from the shaggy beast. He clung to the woolly fur as if in desperation, but no sounds came from his bandaged face, not even the guttural grunts and snorts the Tuskens used as language. Head down, his eye tubes pointed toward the churned sand where bantha footprints had trampled the pristine dune, the passenger stood dejected in front of the lead rider.
The leader waited beside his mount, holding the upraised gaffi stick; the other Sand People climbed down from their banthas. They thrashed their own weapons in the air. Han and Luke copied the gestures, trying to blend in.
In his disguise Luke moved slowly and wearily. This mission was taking a heavy toll on the Jedi Knight, and Han hoped they would reach their destination soon.
The forlorn passenger hesitated at the edge of the dune, gazing across the sweeping ocean of loose sands that spread to the horizon. The Sand People stood at attention and raised their gaffi sticks high.
While they concentrated on the intensity of the moment, Luke’s voice buzzed in Han’s ear. “All right, they’re distracted,” he said. “I can explain. The lone Tusken Raider lost his bantha three days ago. A krayt dragon killed it, and unfortunately our friend there got away.”
“What do you mean, unfortunately?” Han mumbled, hoping his voice wouldn’t carry over the restless sounds of the Sand People.
“The Tusken Raiders have a very close relationship with their banthas,” Luke said. “It is a mental bonding, a symbiosis, almost like a marriage. They become part of each other, bantha and Tusken. When one member of the pair is killed, the other is incomplete—like an amputee.” Unconsciously, Luke flexed his cyborg hand. “He has no place in Tusken society, though he is more an object of pity than of hatred. Many believe he should have died beside his bantha, no matter what the circumstances.”
“So, are they just going to kill him?” Han asked.
“Yes and no,” Luke said. “They believe the spirit of the dead bantha must decide. If the spirit wishes for him to bond with another mount, our friend will find a free wild bantha in the desert, join with it, and return in triumph to the tribe, where he will be fully accepted—even highly revered. However, if the bantha’s spirit wants his rider to join him in death, then the outcast will wander hopelessly in the desert until he dies.”
Han barely shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like his chances are too hot.”
Luke said, “Probably not—but that is their way.”
The Sand People waited for the exile to make the first move. Finally, with a single anguished cry that might have been triumph or challenge, he plunged down the steep and shifting slope of the dune. The Sand People tilted their heads toward the burning sky and let out a loud ululating cry that made Han shudder.
The Tusken Raiders thrashed their gaffi sticks to wish their companion well. The banthas raised up their squarish, shaggy heads and bellowed in unison, a rumbling, growling cry that shook the Dune Sea.
The lone Raider waded down the steep slope. Dusty golden sand flew up around him as his feet and legs sank in. His robes flapped