The Clone Wars

by Lou Anders

  “Do you like stories?”

  Bug opened her mouth and closed it, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t used to adults addressing her unless they were ordering her about, so she wasn’t prepared for a real conversation. Especially not one this…odd.

  “I…I was just going to borrow the piece. I wasn’t stealing or anything.”

  The old woman gave her a long look that made Bug feel more than ever like her namesake, squirming under a microscope. “Do you like stories?” she repeated.

  Bug did not know how to respond to this. Her parents had never read her bedtime stories. She was dying to hear what the woman had to say, but she was also confused, and that made her angry. Finally, she shrugged, defensive. “I’m not a baby.”

  “Good. Babies can’t understand stories. Many adults can’t, either, but we’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” The old woman frowned. “How do stories start? Ah, yes. Once upon a time…but this isn’t exactly that kind of story.

  “Not so very long ago, nor so very far away, there lived on the bloodred planet of Dathomir a woman named Falta. She was a small magick maker whose home lay on the far side of the marshes from the fortress of the Nightsisters, most warlike and merciless of the witch clans. Their leader, ruthless and calculating, was one they called Mother Talzin, or simply Mother.”

  An edge of bitterness crept into the old woman’s voice on the word Mother, and she paused in her story to dip just the tip of a finger in the bowl. A few small sparks went up, and a sweet smell crept over the room as the little cloud of red mist began to spread. It hung most thickly over the dejarik table, shifting around the little monnok figure so it looked as though it moved in the dim light.

  “Falta was a member of no clan and claimed no leader, preferring her own company. She was more interested in the business of creation and living than in war and death. She tended a few small rancors as mounts and for meat in times of scarcity, and a tooka cat would come in from its hunting to sit by her fire or even in her lap on cold evenings. Though sometimes lonely, she was mostly content. She traded with the Nightsisters for such things as she could not forage or grow or make for herself.

  “There was very little she could not make. The Nightsisters called her ‘Hearth-Dweller,’ for her makings and magicks were of the simple, day-to-day kind, for feeding and caretaking: bowls and cups, utensils, sometimes large ceremonial urns.

  “But simple did not mean unlovely. Falta’s way with magick was such that her vessels and trinkets and tools were sought after by clans beyond even the Great Canyon. They were useful yet beautiful, sturdy yet elegant. Even water tasted better from her cups, it was said.

  “Beauty, in societies where women and men share spaces, can be dangerous, I’ve heard. It is so among societies of only women, too, though perhaps in another way. The beauty of Falta’s work meant that Falta herself became not just a nameless witch on the edge of the swamp, but someone with a name, and a reputation. That reputation grew when Falta performed a magick so great that not even a powerful witch like Mother Talzin, or the wisest and eldest of the Nightsisters, Old Daka, had dared attempt it.

  “The Nightsisters of Dathomir had what might seem to some a curious custom for burying their dead. They believed that dead witches rejoined their ancestors on the spirit plane and that the living should do all in their power to help them along. That is why they bundled the bodies of their dead with great ceremony into bags of rancor hide—adorned with bones and shells and strung with herbs against the smell of decay—and hoisted them up high above the ground. The branches of the trees between Falta’s home and the Nightsisters’ fortress were thick with the burial pods of sisters whose souls had passed from Dathomir to the next world. They hung down like ripe, and I suppose to an outsider’s eye, horrible fruit. Yet it was one of the ways of the Dathomiri, and the witches never cared to explain their ways to others.

  “But to Falta, the practice seemed unnatural. Fruit was meant to ripen and give life, not die on the branch. She was inspired to magick of a new kind.

  “She began to collect what she would need: clay from the Singing Mountain and water from the Dreaming River. She traded for colorful shells with a traveling witch from the Blue Coral Divers Clan and gathered berries bright as rubies from the Red Hills. She bundled these things and more together not in an old, dead rancor hide, but swaddled in the living fronds of giant ferns that grew beside the Misty Falls. She hung it all from a tree in a quiet glade not far from her house. Each day she would come to the glade and sing lullabies that set every leaf and blade of grass trembling with their powerful magick and put her rancors to sleep in their pens. The tooka cat watched from a safe distance, nothing more than a pair of glowing eyes in the trees.

  “Unlike the Nightsisters’ pale burial pods, Falta’s creation began a brilliant green that, as the seasons passed, darkened to a purple, then lightened to a rose, and finally settled into a pulsing crimson. Many moons later, from it emerged a child like Dathomir had never seen.

  “Her skin was a warm brown like the clay Falta had used to form her body. Her lips were red as berries, and on either temple, she bore marks, like tattoos, of the ferns that had cradled her. She looked at Falta with eyes the blue of coral and reached for her with tiny, perfect hands. Falta named her Yenna, and she was her dearest creation.”

  The old woman scooped the dejarik piece off the table and held it above the bowl. Tendrils of steam rose and enveloped the figure. She cupped her hands and blew into them. She opened her hands, palms up, and where the monnok had been there lay a new image: a girl, sleeping, so lifelike she seemed to breathe. It was unmistakably the Yenna of the story. The woman looked with longing at the tiny figure.

  “To create beauty for beauty’s sake. Love—not love of wealth or power, but of another being—what was natural for Falta was unthinkable to Talzin.”

  The sweet smell in the room grew stronger. If Bug had ever been to a swamp, she would have recognized the scent of vegetable growth and decay, the constant circle of life and death. It lay heavy in her nostrils, and the mist clouded her eyes. She blinked, and the monnok once again stood on the game board, its face frozen in a fierce battle cry, its staff raised, defiant.

  “Many years passed, and Falta and Yenna lived happily and undisturbed in the swamp. But eventually, the rumor of Yenna and her strange birth reached Mother Talzin’s ear. What magick was this? And how could she make it hers? She sent for Falta. And Falta came, bringing many of her finest wares, but she did not bring Yenna.

  “Talzin was displeased. ‘Your work is fine as ever, Falta. But I hear you have an even greater one, which you keep hidden in your little hovel in the marsh. Next time you come, bring with you your masterpiece. Or I will come and fetch it myself.’

  “Reluctantly, Falta obeyed. She brought her daughter with her across the swamp for an audience with Talzin. She did not like the way the witch’s greedy eyes gleamed as they followed Yenna, now a tall, strong girl of thirteen. ‘Let her come and live here,’ Talzin said. ‘You are wasting the girl in the marsh. Who knows what talents she possesses? I can draw them out.’

  “‘We are happy where we are. I am her mother; I know the best use of her talents.’

  “‘As you say,’ Talzin replied, to Falta’s surprise. Then she lay her hands on Yenna’s head and spoke directly to the girl. ‘When you grow tired of your small life, come to me, and we will make it larger than your mother dreams for you.’

  “The girl smiled shyly, but stood a little straighter, proud to be singled out by this powerful witch. It was clear that Yenna was impressed by Talzin, and all of the warlike women who did her bidding. Bitter words burned in the back of Falta’s throat, but she kept silent. She was relieved to be free, to return to the swamp with her daughter.

  “For a short while, things returned to normal. It was what passes for spring on Dathomir, and mother and daughter spent long hours wandering the swamp, foraging for food and collecting supplies for small magicks Yenna had been pestering
Falta to teach her.

  “But Yenna was restless. Her magick had begun manifesting in strange ways: for every successful bowl she shaped, one would shatter in her hands; another would turn water to steam as soon as it was poured in; another would transform anything you placed in it into thick, foul marsh mud. It was as though they reflected the frustration, anger, and sorrow growing inside of her. ‘I’m just not good at it!’ she would cry, throwing her latest failure across the room and running out of the house.

  “Falta remembered being that age and tried to be patient, to make space for her daughter. Yenna ventured out alone often, further and further from home and for long hours after dusk. Her mother tried not to worry. Until one day Yenna did not return.”

  The fire in the common room burned so low that the only light came from the bowl. The red glow illuminated the woman’s yellow eyes in her careworn face. Bug was warm to the point of feverish, and her heart beat fast. It was less like hearing a story and more like being caught up in a dream. She felt Yenna’s restlessness, Falta’s worry and fear for her daughter. If she could have moved from her chair, she would have paced the floor. But her arms and legs were heavy, and the old woman’s voice was low and rhythmic, and the cat purred loudly, lulling Bug’s body half to sleep while her mind struggled to stay awake. With an effort, she spoke.

  “But where’d she go? What happened? She was okay, right?”

  The old woman looked up from the bowl, startled, as if she’d forgotten Bug was even there, but she continued.

  “Falta was no fool. She knew where her daughter had gone before she even found the note that confirmed it: ‘Mother, I’ve gone to learn from the Nightsisters. Maybe I will find my talent with them and find my way in the larger world.’ She heard the echo of Talzin’s promises in Yenna’s message, more potent than any spell, and knew that for a time, at least, her daughter was lost to her.

  “Seasons passed slowly. Spring turned to summer, summer to fall, and fall to winter. Yenna did not return. The cat kept watch in Falta’s lap, for she did not stir often from her chair. She grew gaunt and gray in her sadness as she waited for her daughter. And then, as you know, the war came to Dathomir.

  “When the Separatist ships appeared in the sky and the first war cries echoed across the swamp, Falta set out to fetch her daughter and bring her home to safety. Wild rancors bellowed deep in the swamp, and her mounts were too crazed with fear to be of any use. Falta was forced to cross the bog on her old raft. She imagined each stab of the pole in the muck as a stab in Talzin’s heart. If only Talzin had not seduced her daughter with talk of power. If only she had left them alone in the first place!

  “As she closed in on the fortress, she saw a green light erupt from deep in its walls, fountain into the sky, and then explode like an army of luminous snakes into the swamp. One hit the burial pod hanging nearest Falta, and it ripped open. The rotting corpse of a Nightsister tumbled out, falling half in the bog and half on Falta’s raft, upsetting the craft so that they both almost landed in the muck. Falta fell to her knees, the flesh tearing on her palms as her barge pole flew from her hands into the water. As she paddled desperately with her hands to regain her pole, she saw reflected in the water a terrible, looming shape. She turned to find the corpse of the long-dead Nightsister warrior towering over her, its jaw slack, eyes rolling in fleshless sockets. Falta was no coward, but she screamed and covered her head. The dead thing, though, looked past her, to the sounds of battle. It let out a horrible, shrieking cry, and launched itself from the raft at inhuman speed toward the fortress.

  “What Falta would have given for such speed! By the time she reached the Nightsisters’ compound, the battle was over and the Separatists had won. No guards stood at the entrance to the fortress, and the heavy doors lay blasted and thrown aside, leaving the entryway gaping and broken like the snarling mouth of some wounded beast. Falta heard neither the clanking feet of the droid army nor the breath of a living witch. Pieces of droids were everywhere. The Nightsisters had fought valiantly. But more witches than droids lay where they had fallen in the battle, with no one left to tend the dead. Panic grew in her chest, and her heart felt as if it flew ahead of her on desperate wings, pulling her forward and up the stairs to the fortress’s central chambers.

  “At the center of the fortress lay Old Daka’s lair, the most sacred, most secure quarters in the stronghold. If anyone was alive, Falta reasoned, it would be there. But as she neared, she saw even those strong walls had crumbled. A great ceremonial cauldron was overturned, and a sickly vapor rose from the ooze that spread across the floor. The place stank of Talzin’s dark magick, but Talzin herself was nowhere to be seen.

  “Then Falta spied a dark shape in the corner of the room. Old Daka lay crumpled on the ground. Falta looked around for something to cover the old woman’s body with. She hated Talzin, but this old one had done nothing to her. As she made to cover the woman’s face, muttering the spell for releasing a witch’s soul, Daka’s eyes fluttered open. Falta drew back in surprise, but the old woman grabbed her hand with the last of her strength. ‘You seek the unnatural girl,’ she rasped.

  “‘Where is she?’

  “‘Talzin’s prize. She’s sent her…away. Safe.’ The light was fading in Old Daka’s eyes.

  “‘Where? To the Singing Mountain? The Howling Crag? Where?’ Falta resisted the urge to shake the answer out of the dying woman.

  “‘Safe. Further. Off-world,’ Daka croaked. She let go of Falta’s hand, and her eyes closed once again, this time for good. But she had not left Falta without hope. Yenna lived. She would only have to go further—much further—to find her.

  “So she began to climb.” Bug’s eyes were fully closed now, and the lids felt too heavy to lift. Had she nodded off?

  “Climb?” She managed to get the word out, though her tongue was thick in her mouth. She was so thirsty, and strangely, her legs ached.

  “Yes, yes,” came the old woman’s voice, soothing, like a lullaby. “She climbed to the top of the stairs in the tower and she opened the door with the code she had gotten from one of the Nightsisters.”

  “But…but they’re all dead….” Bug shook her head, trying to clear it. Why couldn’t she open her eyes? Why did her feet feel so heavy?

  “Oh, not all of them. A kindly one gave her the code, and she opened the door with it…. Yes, that’s it. Open it!” The woman’s voice became suddenly sharp, commanding. Bug flinched, ready for the beating that usually followed when an adult spoke to her like that. It was the surprise of no blow falling that woke her from her trance. She opened her eyes, blinked, and looked around.

  They were not in the common room. The old woman held the bowl, and its glow lit up the stairs and the door at the top of the relay tower.

  “H-how did we get up here?”

  “Never mind how, the code, the code!” The woman snapped her long fingers at Bug in impatience and mimed punching the code into the keypad with angry, stabbing motions.

  Bug was fully awake now, and fully aware. She felt a fierceness rise in her, clearing her sight, and she saw the old woman fully for the first time.

  “You called her power hungry and selfish—said that she only knew how to use people. But you’re just another Talzin, Falta.” She spat the old woman’s name at her. “Maybe your daughter is better off without either of her mothers. I’ve never seen what good they are. You all just manipulate people, or scare people, or…or…or hypnotize them into giving you what you want when all you had to do was ask!” Bug was furious, screaming. She didn’t care who heard, especially when she saw the expression on Falta’s face, for Falta it was. She looked as though she’d been slapped, and Bug had been the one doing the slapping, for once. Satisfied, she turned and punched in the code; the door slid open. She stood to the side, breathing hard, too enraged to look Falta in the eye as the witch swept past her into the tower room.

  She relented a little when she saw the woman, only moments before so frightening, so in control, standing
helpless in front of what most people would call a pretty simple comms unit.

  Bug sighed. “I know the one you’re looking for. I was up here when it came in.” It was just a matter of a switch and two buttons, and the message replayed: “On Mother’s instructions I’ve placed her in a class three lifepod marked…fought, so I cast a spell of sleep on her and she may resist when she…estimated travel time from Dathomir is…and drop coordinates in the Mid Rim are as foll—”

  Falta stood with her head bowed, her strong hands gripping the edge of the comms board as if she’d like to break it. “Shall I play it again?” Bug asked. Falta nodded, still not looking up. The message played again. Falta’s shoulders were shaking, and Bug couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. “It’s not much, for all the trouble you went to, is it?”

  Falta’s shoulders continued to shake, but she released her grip on the board and turned to face Bug. She wasn’t crying. She was laughing.

  “It’s more than I had! The Mid Rim! That narrows it down! I could have wasted more lifetimes than a tooka has searching for her in the Outer Rim alone! She’s somewhere in the Mid Rim!” She knelt down and drew Bug into an embrace. Bug was so startled, the last of her anger melted away. Not to be left out, Ichor curled around her ankles, purring louder than ever.