Star Wars_ The Approaching Storm - Alan Dean Foster [68]
When the last stragglers had passed and could be seen flapping madly southward in frantic attempts to keep up with the main flock, the travelers rose from their places of rest and protection for a joyful but solemn reunion. Tension had tired them, but any feelings of fatigue were more than offset by the relief they felt. No one had been hurt, although a curious Anakin had been struck in the face when he had tried to peer briefly around his and Kyakhta’s protective column. A small scratch across his forehead was the only indication of the fortunately brief encounter with airborne kyren.
It was a worthwhile lesson. Sometimes danger came not from the powerful and overbearing, but from the small and the overlooked.
The meticulousness with which the mighty swarm had fed was remarkable to see. The only grass stalks that had been knocked down were those that had been trapped beneath the prone, resting suubatars. The kyren had not flattened a single section of prairie. Every stalk remained standing, but nearly all had been shorn of their ripened seed. As far as the eye could see, the grassland looked as if it had been given a clipping by the largest and most perfect of all mowers.
The reason for what had seemed at the time the premature cessation of flying bodies slamming against each pillar was soon apparent. A small mountain of kyren bodies, hundreds of them, formed a perfect line pointing northward from the back of each column. After a while, enough had died hurling themselves against the unyielding stone to form a soft, protective buffer between each pillar and the rest of the oncoming airborne horde. Ever curious, Obi-Wan picked one up, holding it by a limp wing, and turned to Bulgan.
“Seems to me these vast flocks would be an excellent source of available protein for traveling nomads. Are they good to eat?”
One eye or not, Bulgan managed to convey a complete response with a single disgusted expression. It was left to Kyakhta to elaborate.
“Even after a kyren is cooked, it tastes like boiled mud. All grease.” He eyed Obi-Wan uncertainly. “Would the Jedi like to try some?”
Wrinkling up her face, Barriss made a sickened smacking sound. “Jedi prefer to learn things for themselves—but there are instances where it’s better just to accept the wisdom of others.” She looked slightly worried as she turned to her teacher. “Isn’t that right, Master Luminara?”
“It is in this case,” her Master responded without hesitation. “Besides, I’m not hungry.” Gazing down at herself, she contemplated the side effects of being obliged to sit for an hour beneath millions of kyren passing by overhead. “What I am in need of is a bath.” To this heartfelt observation neither Barriss, nor Anakin, nor even their two guides raised a single objection.
The smell was bad enough, but as they rode on they were forced to look at one another. It was not a pretty sight. At least, she mused, the mess was only discoloring and not toxic. Still, the discovery of a clear-running stream meandering through a shallow vale the next day was too tempting to pass up.
While their employers disrobed to their undergarments and waded into the water—Anakin, Barriss, and Luminara with a relieved rush, Obi-Wan patiently and with a bit more dignity—the two guides unloaded supplies and dirty tack from the patient suubatars. Only then did Kyakhta and Bulgan, urging the lofty mounts before them, join the humans in the river. Keeping their long snouts above water, the suubatars were able to walk out to the very center of the channel, submerging their grimy, soiled selves completely in the cleansing current.
In contrast, the bipeds stayed in the shallows, alternating cleaning themselves with conversing casually. Luminara luxuriated in the tepid tributary, lying back on the sun-warmed sand once she was finally clean and