A Wet, Pretentious Story ch. 27

[pronker]

 

Part Twenty-Seven

Anakin scrutinized the poster. Underneath Strenghis' somewhat sour looks was a faded, thin sheet of another image.

Anakin removed Strenghis' thick poster stock and uncovered a more cheaply-produced broadside. The first thing that he noticed was hair, lots of curling black hair, and then a hooked nose on a thin, ascetic face. The writing was again illegible, and so he had to rely on his own first impressions: idealistic, perhaps born to ease and wealth, or antithetically into genteel poverty. Strenghis' face had the hard look of a self-made man, tough because he had to be. Anakin rolled the fragile paper carefully. He walked back to the charming naynabo scene. He found an upset Grunbi and a Ry-Gaul who was losing ground in his interview. They had half an hour until meeting Obi-Wan.

Grunbi's wattles shook in fear. "Why are you asking me, Ry-Gaul? I didn't even vote last election. Didn't like either of them." The elderly Nepsan swept the carved dejarik pieces into their box held up to the table's edge. The old man half-stood, grabbing his cane in one tea-colored hand. Two gamepieces clattered to the ground and Anakin picked them up.

"Here, sir. We're sorry to bother you. We are strangers and need to get some background on your political situation before addressing the Congress of Tribes, that's all." He flashed his most winning smile, and it seemed to work. The elderly man sat back down. Anakin placed the roll onto the cleared table. Ry-Gaul presented a calm front, a soothing front with more than a little Force suggestion that Grunbi could go in peace after he answered some questions. Anakin felt the intimidation through the Force himself.

"Yes, that's the other candidate, Rondil Murt. Old Mother's Pet, we called him. Never did a day's work; his family didn't believe in it and had enough shares in Nepsan Amalgamated Shipping to indulge themselves. But they loved Trow, and their family produced president after president. Murt was just like the rest of them, believing that Trow and her traditions should never change. He didn't think a Murt would ever lose an election."

Even seated, Ry-Gaul towered over the shrunken old man, imbuing his words and presence with a slight Force enhancement. Anakin caught a glimpse of his quiet power. He didn't think that he could emulate it, and wasn't sure that he wanted to. "Rondil Murt offered something different than Strenghis, didn't he?" Ry-Gaul held out the tattered bit of poster. "Could you translate this for us, please?"

Grunbi smoothed the image. "'Don't change your aloas in midstream.' See, Murt ran things a long time his way --- people were stagnating in the cities, yet the countryside has its traditions and lots of work for food producers. That means everyone in the backcountry gets into a groove of observing the Mother's calendar, not just the Festival of Plenitude, the favorite one, by the way, but the rhythm of the river, the way the years pass so smoothly, so peacefully ... " Grunbi's eyes grew distant. "And before you know it, you're on your funeral barge, given to Gitchy, who takes you to her source, the Mother. Well." He came back to the present from his past and his future. "Ry-Gaul, Murt was the past, and we of Trow, but especially Nepsa, wanted change. And we got it. Oh, yes, we got it."

"You sound like change is a bad thing." Anakin recalled the Boonta Eve races and the parties during Boonta Eve Advent. He wouldn't have wanted those to change, even though he never attended any of the parties. It had been fun to peek through the gathering crowds at the celebrities arriving at the races prior to his being in one, even though now he was nostalgic about who he thought then was a celebrity.

"Sometimes it is, young Anakin. Separatists visited right after the war started; it was no big secret. They were nice people. They gave presents and said they would bring more than force pikes to everyone if Strenghis agreed to join them. He's kept them at bay for a little over a year now; he's got support among the Leaders of backcountry villages, especially one old friend, Qikal."

"We've heard of him." Ry-Gaul's voice was as bland as Trow's cuisine.

xxxxxx

"Mememememe, momomomomo, maymaymaymaymay, mymymymymy, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, OOOOH, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooooh. Ptui." The Negotiator cleared his pipes, loosening his vocal cords. Through the years, Obi-Wan's voice had developed an unfortunate tendency to squeak under stress. Before any public speaking, he centered himself, visualizing his cords relaxing, thickening for bass tones, though his would never be a true bass. He wondered how Ithorians kept their vocal abilities in trim as he worked his highest range, visualizing the cords symmetrical and perfect, no uneven stretches and certainly none that would produce embarrassing squeaks. The exercise worked nearly all the time.

"Mr. President, venerable members of Congress. May the Mother grant that we all reach the next Festival season in good health," he practiced diligently. Also through the years, Obi-Wan had invoked deities both benevolent and fiercely protective. That he wanted to remain in good health for another year was true enough. Another Festival of Plenitude was anathema, however. Far too embarrassing, too revealing, too ... confusing. Why had his body reacted ecstatically to Anakin's presence? He didn't know. It was more than pity, it was more like ...

"Master." Anakin burst in the door, remembering at the last minute to defer to Ry-Gaul's report before his own. Yes, his Padawan needed to recite the Respect-for-Master's-Authority and soon.

"News?"

The river cascaded.

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