RATING: PG, for a bit of language. Nothing worse than "damn".
ARCHIVE: Corellia, Master_Apprentice, my site. Anyone else,
ask, please.
DISCLAIMER: LucasFilm owns all. I'm just borrowing.
SUMMARY: Mace & Qui-Gon demonstrate their creativity.
Dedicated to all those who never did figure out how to
macrame. More mush. Something like a sequel to "The Great
Outdoors", which you can find at the URL in the .sig.
Mace Windu stood in the open door to Qui-Gon Jinn's room, just
staring at the interior.
His friend knelt in meditation in the room's centre, hands
resting on his thighs, eyes closed, breathing slowly and
regularly, a picture of serenity. Mace glanced into the
bedroom, and shook his head. They had shared quarters for a
while, before being taken on as padawan learners. Qui-Gon's
half of the room had always been a disaster; Mace's had always
been painstakingly tidy. For such a disciplined, controlled
man, Qui-Gon was really kind of a slob.
Beneath the window stood pot after pot of plants in varying
degrees of bloom, threatening to take over the entire wall. A
box in one corner of the room caught his attention. He leaned
down to see a bundle of blankets, which rose and fell with the
breathing of... well, Force knew what Qui-Gon had
dragged home, now. Mace only hoped it wasn't carnivorous.
The terrarium against the far wall was thankfully empty. Its
previous occupants, a family of Iridian lizards-- complete with
poisonous fangs, claws, and back spines-- had terrorised
the floor following their escape one afternoon, and had been
returned to their natural habitat shortly after.
"If they're well enough to run," Qui-Gon had explained, with
his usual calm, "they're well enough to live free."
The workdesk was covered with books and papers and circuitry--
the result of various projects Qui-Gon was involved with. Mace
couldn't see any real order in the chaos, but presumed that
some order, of some obscure kind, was there.
"You're early," Qui-Gon said, without opening his eyes, or
otherwise moving, although Mace could sense he had come out of
trance.
"I finished my reports more quickly than usual. I've reserved
one of the sparring rooms already.
"Thanks. Oh-- Master Billaba thanked me for volunteering,"
Qui-Gon added, standing in a single smooth movement.
"She did? For what?"
"For volunteering to work with the children. Again."
"You did? Well, good for you."
"Yes. Funny thing, though." Qui-Gon crossed his arms.
"What's that?"
"I didn't. Volunteer, I mean."
"No?" Mace asked, wide-eyed.
"No. And stop trying to look innocent. It isn't working. Even
if I didn't know you, I wouldn't believe it."
"I'm hurt."
"It could be arranged."
"So... what is it you've volunteered for?" Mace asked,
hurriedly.
"Chldrn'sartour."
"Beg pardon?"
The other Jedi opened his eyes. "The children's. Art. Hour," he
said, enunciating each word very clearly.
"Ohhh. Well. Sorry I'll be missing that."
"Who says you'll be missing it?"
"You didn't!"
"I did. Have you ever used a pottery wheel, Mace?"
"Bastard."
"Watch the language."
"Traitor."
"Coward."
"Have you ever been to one of the arts and crafts
sessions?" Mace demanded.
"Well, no. But how hard...." Qui-Gon cut himself off.
Mace nodded. "We'll need to practise sparring some other time,
my friend. We have to come up with some kind of strategy."
"That bad?"
Mace's mouth tightened. "You have no idea."
"Master Qui-Gon!" a chorus of happy little voices cried, as he
entered the bright, cheerful craftsroom. Despite himself, he
was touched by their enthusiasm. Nonetheless, he gave silent
thanks to the Force for guiding him to wear his oldest, darkest
brown trousers and tunic.
Some of the children were clustered around a table with
fingerpaints. More paint on them, than the paper, he noticed,
but they were clearly enjoying themselves. Another bunch were
working with what seemed to be miniature looms, turning skein
after skein of coloured wool into... well. Into something
resembling some sort of yarn-based craft.
He was amused to spot Mace in a corner with a trio of students,
demonstrating the finer points of needlework. A very practical
craft, for Jedi, of course; with the rough lifestyle Jedi so
often led, clothing tore often, and there was rarely time to
find a tailor.
"Of course." Qui-Gon followed them to a small table, where half
a dozen children were rolling out, and pounding, and
flattening, and otherwise abusing clay of various textures and
colours.
"I'm making a bowl," a small Woostrian girl informed him.
"See?"
"Very nice," he said, sincerely, although it looked rather more
like a... something... than a bowl.
"You have to work it for a long time," Lesandre informed him.
"Here, you try," Narren Tatsai said, pushing a glob of bright
green, slightly mushy-looking clay at him.
Qui-Gon regarded it somewhat dubiously. Six sets of eyes
watched him eagerly. He knelt down beside the table, and dug
his fingers into the material. It had a sticky, cool
consistency, and stuck to his skin, getting under his nails in
a not overly pleasant fashion. Satisfied, the children went
back to their own projects. Only Obi-Wan continued to watch him
closely.
"If you roll it out so that it's long, you can coil it," he
said.
"Coil it?"
"Like a snake."
"Like a snake," Qui-Gon echoed.
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. Grown-ups, he thought, clearly
enough for the Jedi master to hear.
Qui-Gon repressed a smile. "Will you show me?" he asked,
meekly.
Obi-Wan leaned over. "Watch. You do it like this." He rolled
the glob of clay against the tabletop, until it was a single
long tube. "Now, you coil it."
"Like a snake," Qui-Gon said, understanding.
"Exactly." The boy sounded pleased at his quick comprehension.
He rolled the tube back into a ball. "Now you try."
Obediently, Qui-Gon rolled and coiled.
"Very good," Obi-Wan said, his tone one of approval. "Now you
can make a jar."
"Ah-- by putting a bottom on it. Yes, I see."
"Here," Lesandre said, offering a handful of eye-shatteringly
bright blue clay.
"Thanks." He smoothed out the clay into something like a
circle, then gently settled it over the upper end of his jar.
He carefully smoothed the edges down-- until a too-rough
movement of his index finger poked a hole in the side. "Damn."
He scraped the blue clay off, and smoothed the hole over. He
replaced the bottom. Another hole. "Damn."
"It's okay," Obi-Wan said, soothingly. "It's a lot harder than
it looks."
"Yes, it is."
Mace glanced over, and grinned widely. Qui-Gon was bent over a
pile of clay, as attentive to his work as if he were building a
lightsaber. The little Kenobi boy appeared to be offering
advice, which the Jedi master was taking to heart. Yes,
that'll do nicely, he thought.
"Master Mace?"
"Yes, Tegan?"
"Can we go out in the hall to paint? I want to paint the
sunset."
"Go right ahead," he said. "Just be careful, all right? I'll be
out to check on you in a moment."
"Damn." The pot looked a lot more like a... well, something
other than a pot. The different clays were all smushed
together, and he'd lost all hope of attaching a bottom.
"Don't worry, Master Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan consoled him. "Pottery
isn't for everyone. Maybe you're more the painter type. Why
don't you try that, instead?"
Rueful, Qui-Gon stood. "I think I'll take your advice. Enjoy
your work, Obi-Wan. And thank you for your lessons, and your
patience. You make a very good teacher." The boy lit up at the
praise.
He was halfway to the door, when a small hand caught at his
tunic.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Obi-Wan?"
"I made this for you-- when they said you and Master Mace would
be here today." He offered Qui-Gon a small, green tube of clay.
Qui-Gon took it from him, careful not to crush it in his
fingers.
"I'm sorry, Obi-Wan...."
The boy, recognising his confusion, explained. "It's a holder,
for your hair. You can slide it up, over an elastic, see? So
it'll look better."
"Ohh. Yes, I see. Thank you, Obi-Wan." He bowed very slightly
to the young student, who bowed back, small face very solemn.
Mace looked over at him. I've sent some of 'em outside to
paint. Why don't you join them?
I think I will, yes. He walked out into the hall, where
a handful of students were busy painting their versions of the
Coruscant skyline at sunset. He raised his hands behind his
head, and sorted out the tied-back section of hair, sliding
Obi-Wan's gift up to cover the simple band of elastic. It
caught slightly, but seemed to fit.
One of the children noticed him standing there. "There's some
more paint, sir, and brushes," she said, gesturing to the side.
"Thank you, Tegan," he said, formally, helping himself to a
plain sheet of white paper, a brush, and a container of black
paint. He couldn't go wrong with that, surely? Of course not.
He knelt-- wanting to remain on the children's level-- and
considered the cityscape. Ah, yes. The Isstannen embassy's
distinctive lines. That would do.
Working carefully, he painted, concentrating on the simplicity
of the construct, rather than the detail, as befitted the
medium. This is really quite fun, he decided.
"That's really... interesting, sir," Tegan said, a little
hesitant.
"Well... thank you."
"It's... the... the Temple?" she asked.
He looked at his work. "It's the Embassy," he corrected her,
gesturing at that building.
"Ohhh. Okay, I see it now. It's very good, Master Qui-Gon." She
smiled at him, only a little patronising, and went back to her
own painting.
"Painting you are, hmm?" said a voice-- at ear-level, for once.
Qui-Gon turned to his master.
"Yes, Master Yoda."
"Very nice, it is. A starship, it is?"
"No, Master Yoda."
"Oh." The revered Master peered more closely. "A Rancor?"
"No. Master Yoda. It's the Embassy building."
"Yes, yes. See it now, I do. Very..." Yoda trailed off. "Master
Qui-Gon, clay you have in your hair."
"Sir?" Frowning, Qui-Gon reached behind himself to touch his
hair. Sure enough, what felt like clay was matted into it.
Yoda leaned a little closer. "That holder you wear. Not fired,
it is. Wet, it was, still."
Damn.
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch! Qui-Gon yanked the comb through his
hair, removing another clump of clay... and hair. "They ought
to use this stuff to construct space stations, instead of
giving it to children for play," he muttered, rubbing at his
scalp.
He heard the door to the main room open. "Come in, Mace. Make
yourself at home," he called, a bit sourly.
"Qui-Gon...." To his surprise, his friend sounded worried.
Qui-Gon put down the comb and left the bathroom.
"What is it?"
"It's Obi-Wan Kenobi-- you know, the little human boy."
"Yes, of course. What's wrong with him?" Qui-Gon was surprised
to find himself as concerned as he was. All of the Jedi did
their best to care for and teach the children; but this
child... this one was special, somehow.
"He gave you that, uh, hair thing...."
"Yes. What about it?"
"Well... one of the other children told him that it wasn't--
that it sort of -- well, that it got caught in your hair."
"Yes. And I say again: What about it?"
"He didn't actually cry... but he was terribly upset about it,
Qui-Gon. You need to talk to him."
Qui-Gon blinked.
Mace sighed. "He may be in training to become a Jedi, but he's
still a little boy. He has a bad case of hero-worship, and he
probably feels lower than dianoga larvae. Go talk to him."
"What do I tell him?"
"Go talk to him."
"I don't have any real experience with children. Every time we
do anything with them, it--"
"Go talk to him."
"So you think I should go talk to him."
"That's what I think."
"It always makes me nervous when you make sense."
"I thought it made you nervous when I say 'I have an idea.' "
"No. That makes me terrified."
"Ha. Ha. Ha."
It wasn't that difficult for Qui-Gon to find Obi-Wan. The boy
was a tiny, intense point of misery. He was in the meditation
garden, Qui-Gon was pleased to see, trying to work through his
feelings.
A small stream had been carefully cultivated to run through the
entire garden, narrow enough to step over at some places; wide
enough to justify a small bridge at others. Obi-Wan was
kneeling near one of the narrower points, near a small stand of
bushes. Soundlessly, Qui-Gon sank into a kneeling posture
beside Obi-Wan.
The boy shrank into himself, but said nothing. Qui-Gon closed
his eyes, and let the Force enter him fully, opening himself to
the present and the future, until they lay before him in a
network of paths and crossroads. Time shifted and changed
constantly; all Jedi knew that. But for a few moments, the
Force could show one a few of the possible futures. Even if one
chose to find yet another way, the reminder of what was
possible was invaluable.
"I thought it was dry," Obi-Wan said, at last, in a very, very
small voice.
"So did I."
An even smaller voice. "I didn't mean to get your hair all
gunked up. I'm really sorry."
"So am I."
Now the boy was confused. "Sir?"
"For spoiling your gift to me. I ought to have been more
careful. I'm sorry."
He opened his eyes, and looked down. Obi-Wan's mouth was
hanging open in surprise. "Is something wrong, Obi-Wan?"
"You-- sorry? But it was my fault!"
"No. It was your mistake."
"But-- but..." Obi-Wan frowned. "If it can't be my
fault... then how can it be... oh. We both made a mistake, I
guess?"
"Yes, we did. Both of us."
"Oh."
Qui-Gon closed his eyes again. He could sense the boy doing the
same, and smiled to himself.
"You really liked it?"
"Yes, very much. Nobody's ever made anything for me before."
"Never? Not even once?"
"Not even once." Qui-Gon was both amused and touched to realise
the boy felt sorry for him. "Thank you, again."
"You're welcome, sir."
They lapsed into silence. The Jedi Master breathed, slowly and
deeply, waiting, looking into and outside of himself. Above
them, the stars in the night sky flickered through the
atmosphere, following their own paths. Within Qui-Gon's heart,
one door closed; and another opened.
Things are as they are, he thought, quoting one of
Yoda's favourite catchphrases.
He rose to his feet in one easy movement. More awkwardly,
Obi-Wan stood, as well.
"You should be getting back to your quarters."
"Yes, sir."
They walked from the garden together.
"Did I ever tell you what happened after I knocked Master Yoda
over?"
"No, sir. What?" Obi-Wan asked, expectantly.
"He lectured me. And then, he took me as his apprentice. He
said it was the only way to keep me from destroying the entire
Temple, and he didn't feel as if it would be fair to make
someone else handle me. He said quite a lot else, too. For
quite a while. Hours, in fact. I missed three classes."
"Wow." Obi-Wan's voice was reverent.
"Quite. Good night, Obi-Wan."
"Good night, sir." The boy bowed, politely.
Qui-Gon returned the bow. "One last thing."
"Yes, sir?" Obi-Wan watched him, waiting.
"I'll expect you in the training room directly after
breakfast... padawan." Qui-Gon smiled at the small boy, bowed
again, and strode off down the corridor, taking the left-hand
turning.
Obi-Wan stared after him. And stared.
After a moment, Qui-Gon passed by again, this time headed in
the correct direction.
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