Star Wars_ The Approaching Storm - Alan Dean Foster [162]
Yoda settles himself on the stone in a series of grunts and shifts, adjusting the skirts of his worn Jedi robes, and letting his feet hang just over the surface of the pond. The water-skeeters zip under his ancient green toes, oblivious to the slightly hairy greatness dangling over them. “Pensive, are you, Dooku?”
The student doesn’t attempt to deny it.
“No fear about this mission have you, surely?”
“No, Master.” The student corrects himself. “Not about the mission, anyway.”
“Confident, you should be. Ready you are.”
“I know.”
Yoda seems to want the light he has left on the ground. He turns his cane around and tries to hook the glow light’s handle with it. Grimacing, he fishes once, twice, but the light slips off. He grunts, exasperated.
With the barest flick of his attention, the student picks up the lantern with the Force and sends it floating to his teacher. “Why not do it the easy way, Master?” he asks—and knows what’s coming as soon as he shuts his mouth.
“Because it is easy,” Yoda grunts. In the young man’s experience, students get a lot of answers like this from Yoda. He didn’t send the light away, though, Dooku thinks.
They sit together in the garden. Somewhere out of sight, a fish breaks the surface, then settles back into the water.
Yoda gives the student a companionable prod with the end of his stick. “So ready to leave, yesterday you were!”
“And last month, and last year, and the year before that.” A rueful smile from Dooku lights and dies slowly away. “But now that it’s really going to happen …” He looks around. “I can’t remember a time I didn’t want to leave—to go out, to travel the stars, to see the world. And yet I have loved it here. This place has been my home. You have been my home.”
“And will be still.” Yoda gazes at the sweet-scented darkness of the gardens approvingly. “Always be here, we will. Home, yes … they say on Alderaan, Home it is, where when you come to the door, they have to let you in!” He snuffs the evening air, laughing a little. “Hm. Always will there be a place for you here.”
“I suppose so. I hope so.” The student looks down at the shell in his hand. “I found this on the bank. Abandoned by a freshwater hermit crab. They don’t have homes of their own, you know. They keep outgrowing them. I was thinking about that, how the Jedi found me on Serenno. With my mother and father, I suppose. I can’t remember them now. Do you ever stop to think how strange that is? Every Jedi is a child his parents decided they could live without.” Yoda stirs, but does not speak. “I wonder, sometimes, if that is what drives us, that first abandonment. We have a lot to prove.”
A glow-fly comes flickering out of the tangled vines to zip over the surface of the pond, like a spark shot from a fire. The student watches it make its dizzy pattern over the quiet water.
Yoda has a question he likes to ask: What are we, think you, Dooku? Every time the student tries a different answer: We are a knot tied in the Force or We are the agency of Fate or We are each cells in the body of History … but tonight, watching the glow-fly hiss and flicker in the night, a truer answer comes to him. In the end, what we are is: alone.
With a faint pop, like a bubble bursting, a fish rises from the dark water and snaps. The glow-fly’s light goes out and is gone, leaving no trace but one weak ripple that spreads slowly across the surface of the pond.
“I guess even then I was like that hermit crab,” the student says. “Too big for my parents’ house. So you brought me here, and it’s been years, now, that even the Temple has seemed a tight fit for me. I guess …” The young man pauses, turning, so the light falling against the edge of his hooded robe throws a shadow across his face. “I worry that once I am out in the big world, I will never be able to fit inside here again.”
Yoda nods, speaking almost