Work Text:
"Long ago, so long ago, I wasn't there, or I wouldn't be here now to tell you the tale, there was a free girl who lived on the outskirts of Mos Eres. She and her mother worked their nights in the canyons of the desert, harvesting kala-grass, and worked their days at home, sheltering from the shade, spinning thread from the grasses. The grass-thread they wove into panels for windows and coverings for market stalls, and traded that which they made to the community, so all could shelter from the sun; and in turn their neighbors saw that they had enough food to eat, and water to drink, and clothes to protect them from the stinging insects in the canyons at night.
The girl had an understanding with one of the boys from the town, whose family dug up clay from deep pits in the old quarries and shaped it into cups and jugs; every time she went to the market-stall he tended, they stayed out talking in the sun for far too long, and both of them went home tired and heat-silly, and were roundly scolded by their families. But she liked the way the boy smiled at her, in the shade of the awnings she helped weave, and he liked the way her hands looked carefully sorting through the grasses; and so the families agreed it wasn't a bad match, and so the boy came and stayed at the girl's house for a cycle of the moons, to see if he could learn how to harvest and spin grass and be a part of the girl's family.
Well, it turned out the boy had no head for the different types of grasses that grew in the canyons, and his hands that so skillfully spun a cup on the wheel struggled to spin the grasses together sturdily enough for weaving-thread. He went back to his family's home, and took up the clay again with relief, though he remained friendly with the weaver-girl and her mother.
Still, during his time with them, one thing had led to another, and in time the weaver-girl realized she was growing larger, and was excited to grow her family, and care for a child the way her mother had cared for her. Her mother cautioned her that childbearing was dangerous, especially in the harsh lands near Mos Eres, and showed her where the herbs were that would help her daughter be free of the burden of a child; but the girl wanted a child, and said that she was willing to face the danger for something she wanted so badly. She worked harder than ever, preparing a stockpile of extra grasses for her to spin and weave while she was bed-bound; she accepted gifts from the family of clay-makers, who were glad to now count the weavers among their distant kin; and she learned from the elders of the community what to expect when the child came, what she would need to do to protect it from the harsh suns and hot sands before it grew accustomed to desert life.
But the Hutt of Mos Eres noticed the buzz of activity growing over the long months, and the way the community prepared for a celebration as the moons grew and shrank, and sent her majordomo down to see what had the people so excited. The majordomo wandered the markets, and listened to the gossip; he watched the clay-workers at their stalls and heard them teasing the boy for his virility. And eventually he came to the house of the weavers, on the edge of town, and saw the stockpile they had gathered in preparation for the girl's new child.
"What a wealth of supplies!" the majordomo said. "I hope you have not been holding back on your taxes to the Grand Hutt of Mos Eres."
The weaver-mother assured the majordomo that this was not such a great wealth; that it simply looked that way, since they had it all laid out; and that they would never short the Hutt her taxes.
"I am not so sure," the majordomo said. "Your family must come to the palace of the Hutt, to check the accounting-books and ensure that everything has been properly paid in full."
The weaver-mother quailed in fear at the thought, and tried to calculate how much extra she would need to pay - because the accounting-books were hard to read, and often damaged, and she would have to pay the taxes in part or in full again if anything was unclear - but she agreed that she would come to the palace the next day.
But at that moment, the weaver-woman's daughter came into the room, her belly round like the full moon, and the majordomo demanded that she be the one to come to the palace.
The girl and her mother had no choice but to agree, and the next day, after a long night of gathering grasses, the girl walked up to the palace, cradling her growing belly in her hands.
The Hutt's majordomo led the girl deep into the palace, through the winding maze of tunnels with no light from the sky or breeze from the desert, and brought her to the throne room, where the girl knelt before the Hutt and the majordomo brought out three old accounting-books.
"In this book," the majordomo said, "there are a hundred wupiupi missing from your family's account, and that sum must be paid in full."
The girl knew this must be false, but could not say so directly, because she could not read; instead, she said, "My family has always paid our taxes in work and the workings of our hands; if a debt is recorded in wupiupi, it must belong to some merchant or trader much greater than me."
The Hutt rumbled her displeasure at this, and the majordomo said, "Regardless of the method, coin or craft, the debt must be paid. If you return tomorrow with the full amount, that debt shall be forgiven."
The girl knew this was not possible, as did the majordomo; and the majordomo said, "If you cannot pay this debt back in money, you may pay for it in work, and return tomorrow with a sun-shade great enough to protect the Great Hutt from the burning heat of noon."
The weaver-girl ran back to her mother and told her of the Hutt's demands, knowing that it would be impossible even for the two of them to weave such a giant sun-shade by tomorrow.
"Not all is lost," said the girl's mother, and gathered together all the panels they had already woven. She sent the girl around Mos Eres, asking if others in the community would be willing to return the sun-shades they had given before, and then to the clay-workers, to ask for more hands to help.
The clay-worker boy knew he couldn't help with the sewing or the weaving, but he knew he and his family could help in this way: they held the panels steady as the girl and her mother sewed them together, creating one giant sun-shade out of many.
So, with the work of months done - or at least patched together - in one night, the next day the girl and her mother carried the massive sun-shade to the Hutt's palace.
The majordomo saw them coming, and scowled in anger; he had hoped the girl would have failed, and become his slave. But the Hutt had laid out the terms, and so must follow them; the girl and her mother presented the Hutt with the sun-shade, and their debt was declared fulfilled.
But then, as the Hutt gestured, comfortably shaded by the massive work, the majordomo brought out the second account book. "In this book," he said, "There are a thousand wupiupi missing from your family's account, and that sum must be paid in full."
The girl's mother could read, and demanded to see the book. "Our family has never taken on this loan," she said, reading through the entry. "This has some other family's name attached to it."
"Regardless of name, the debt must be paid," the majordomo said, dismissing the woman's arguments. "If you return tomorrow with the full amount, the debt will be forgiven."
"Our family does not deal in coin," the woman said. "We will return tomorrow with a craft to please the great Hutt."
The Hutt rumbled her displeasure.
"In that case," the majordomo said, "You must craft a rope capable of restraining a mighty Bantha, for one of the Great Hutt's banthas has escaped and she demands its return."
The girl almost cried out at this, for she knew such a thing was impossible; but her mother dragged her away, saying, "Not all is lost."
Even as the girl despaired, her mother led her out into the canyons, and then beyond them to the edge of the dune sea. There, her mother stood upon a boulder and sung out at the desert, casting her voice far; and before the first moon had risen, a Sand Person rode out of the desert.
The girl was frightened, but stood steady, as her mother clearly knew what she was doing.
"The Great Hutt has set us a task," the woman told the Sand Person, "To spin a rope strong enough to restrain a Bantha, to repay a debt that is not ours. We have our thread and yarn, which we weave sun-shades of, but we cannot spin a rope that strong."
The Sand Person held out its hands for trade, and into its hands the woman placed the very finest of the thread they had spun, saved for the child's first clothes. In return, the Sand Person gave them two long lengths of string; one of metal wire, and one of tough leather.
The girl and her mother returned to Mos Eres, and worked through the night to braid together the wire, the leather, and their own grass-yarn, to make a great rope capable of holding a Bantha; though as morning came and they prepared to bring the rope to the Hutt's palace, the girl felt restlessness in her stomach and knew her child would come soon.
Still, she and her mother carried the great rope up to the Hutt's palace. The majordomo directed his slaves to take the rope, and the Hutt watched from under her great sun-shade as the mighty Bantha was caught and restrained by the braided rope, and their second debt was declared fulfilled.
But then, as the Bantha was being led away, the Hutt gestured, and the majordomo brought out the third account book.
"In this book," he said, "There are ten thousand wupiupi missing from your family's account, and that sum must be paid in full."
The mother and her daughter knew this to be a complete fabrication, but even as the mother demanded to see the account, and the daughter protested that they had never even seen such a sum, they knew their protests would fall on deaf ears.
"If you return tomorrow with the full amount, the debt will be forgiven," the majordomo said. "And if you do not, your whole family will be taken as slaves."
The woman said nothing, for she knew that there was no craft she could make to repay a sum that large. But the girl had a fire in her, and demanded what the Hutt would deem sufficient through barter.
The majordomo turned to the Hutt, who was silent for a long moment, then waved her hand and spoke.
"All you must do," said the majordomo, "To repay this debt, is to fill the Great Hutt's cup with water."
At this, the girl fell into a deep despair. She could ask the community she lived in for work, and they would help her work; she could ask for knowledge, and they would give her knowledge. But to ask for water, enough water to fill a Hutt's cup, was to ask for life to be traded away - for others to die. And that is something she would not do.
The girl and her mother went home, and as the girl's mother walked around Mos Eres, trying to find a way out of their doom, the girl gave birth to her child.
In the morning, she bundled the child up in a sling on her chest, and walked with her mother to the Hutt's palace.
"Well?" the majordomo asked, as they stood in front of the Hutt, beneath the great awning they had woven. "Will you fill up the Great Hutt's cup with water? Or will the three of you be the Great Hutt's slaves?"
"I will fill the Great Hutt's cup," the girl said, and handed the child to her mother, "For I will not see my beloved child be a slave."
The majordomo could clearly see she had no water with her, and laughed. "Approach, then, and try your best," he said.
The girl approached the Hutt, and the cup sitting before her, and did not look back at her mother and her child. Instead she bowed to the Hutt, bending low over the cup; and with the thin, sharp knife she carried to harvest grasses, she slit her own throat.
Out of her throat poured blood, dark red, filling the cup and overflowing it, even as the Hutt shrieked in fury and the Majordomo cried out in shock.
Where that blood, dark red life, watered the sand beneath the sky, dark sprouts grew; as the girl's blood continued to empty out of her, they grew and grew. They grew over the majordomo's feet, tripping him, and when he fell to the ground they twined over him, trapping him beneath; and they grew around the Hutt's great body, wrapping her tail and arms, even as she bellowed for her slaves to come free her.
Still the vines grew; and now, as they wrapped tigher and tighter around the Hutt choking her of breath, as they smothered the majordomo beneath them, they blossomed.
The weaver-mother wept precious tears upon the sands for her daughter's choice, and carried her grandchild home in freedom. She named her Beru, for the flowers that had slain the Hutt and her majordomo: as dark red as blood, as round as the suns, as sweet as life, and as eternal as the changing moons."
-
The children stare up at Shmi, eyes round and mouths wide.
"That's," Siri says, sounding rather strangled, "That's, uh, probably not really an appropriate story for crechelings their age."
Shmi frowns. "Really? But Ani loved this story when he was their age." She looks down at them again. True, they didn't lead lives nearly as harsh as hers or Ani's; they had nobody desperate to keep them calm and quiet when an owner was angry or annoyed. "Was it too long for them?"
Siri clears her throat. "... Among other things."
Now that Shmi's thought it over a bit, she feels a little silly. "And they probably don't have the context for what kala-grass is like, or banthas, or things like that."
One of the crechelings, a human with dark skin and hair, tugs on Shmi's dress. "What's a San'people?"
"Some think that the Sand People are nameless ghosts who wander the sands forever, hiding their faces because they're ashamed that they've forgotten what they look like," Shmi tells the child, instinct taking over. "Some think that the Sand People are as ancient as the sands themselves, the first peoples of Tatooine. And some think that the Sand People are farmers who dress up in scary robes in order to attack their neighbors and steal their harvest."
"But if you really want to know," Siri says, scooping the crecheling up, "We can go look it up in the Archives! Whoooo wants to go on a trip to the Archives and learn more about the Tatooine biosphere?"
"Me! Me!" The children shriek, with other interjections like "What's a datachip taste like?" (Shmi will have to watch out for that), "Iwanna see the laser gun!" (Wait, what?), and "Eeeeeee!" (She'd somehow forgotten how loud they could get at this age).
Even as the children cluster around Siri, Shmi can sense that the other Jedi still feels a little… discomfited by her story. "I'm sorry it wasn't an appropriate story," she says, as they both try and wrangle the crechelings into their shoes.
"It should be fine," Siri says, flapping her hand - then booping a little Nautolan on the nose. "They probably didn't even understand the… the parts they didn't understand. And if they did understand them, well then, they're old enough to learn about them, I guess."
Shmi nods, then tilts her head to the side. "That's not all."
Siri looks away for a moment, then back at Shmi. "It's about a mother who died so her child wouldn't be enslaved. How was it Anakin's favorite?"
Shmi laughs, at that, a little startled. "Oh, Ani knows that we mothers don't - didn't - have much choice in it. They watched us so closely before the births that I don't think I was in a room all by myself for months before he was born; and then, of course, they took him and chipped him while I was still recovering from the labor. Yes, I have a son named Ani," she tells a small blue child. "And he's thiiis tall!" She hoists the giggling crecheling up in the air before setting them back down. "And he always liked the tricky parts of the story, figuring out how to do the impossible tasks. There's dozens of different versions, you know, where she has to find three jewels lost in the desert, or separate out sand from grain, or things like that."
"With the Force, all things are impossible," a crecheling tells her solemnly.
"I think you mean all things are possible," Shmi tells them.
"Yeah, that."
Siri still has a strange expression on her face and a strange, discomforted resonance in the Force, but she's not letting it show to the children. "Life on Tatooine is very different from life here," she tells them. "Isn't it nice to have Padawan Shmi here to help us learn today?"
"And now we're going to the Archives to learn even more," Shmi agrees. And in the future, she'll make sure to check with someone raised in-Temple that her stories are more appropriate for the crechelings.
She doesn't want them to be too bored, after all.