The Weavers of Jardeen

 

A Star Wars Fan Fiction

By Mitch R Cook

 

The dogg seems focused and hurried as it speeds towards an open gate of the monastery.  Several robed monks are finishing up some yard work on the grounds.  They pay no mind to the animal.

The dogg searches the halls for his “robe.”  He roams freely and is without fear of the other “robes.”  He stops in the doorway of the busy kitchen.  One of the “robes” stops and addresses him. “You looking for your buddy, Jax?  He isn’t in here, and you know you aren’t supposed to be anywhere near the kitchen, mate.  Now SCOOT.”  The “robe” uses a broom to lightly sweep Jax away.

Jax scampers to avoid the broom and continues his search.  He is hungry and his “robe” carries his favorite treats.  But it is too early in the day for his “robe” to be in the dark room.  He wanders in that direction anyway.  Just in case.

Sure enough, Jax finds his “robe,” Jonas, in the dark room, kneeling in front of a dresser.  The Weaver is in anguish, robe less, the bright red handprint on his chest visible to anyone. He is whispering something to himself and his eyes are closed.

 

Jonas repeats a prayer that he repeats often.  While he tries to focus only on the words and the meaning of the words, he cannot help but recount the sins of his past. 

“Steer the ship of my life, good Lords, to your quiet harbor, where I can be safe from the storms of sin and conflict.”  He remembers a mighty battle in a desert.  “Show me the course I should take. Renew in me the gift of discernment, so that I can always see the right direction in which I should go.”  The battle was not going well for Jonas or his fellow soldiers.  They pleaded with Jonas to do something before they were all killed.  “And give me the strength and the courage to choose the right course, even when the sea is rough and the waves are high, knowing that through enduring hardship and danger in your name we shall find comfort and peace.”  Jonas apparently did do something in the end.  He remembers a final image of himself standing in a pile of dead warriors, enemy warriors, raising his face and voice to the sky in anguish.  In his room at the Monastery, he quietly weeps for those he killed.

Sleep comes fitfully.

  

 

From high, looking down on a great expanse of nothingness, a small figure is making its way across the desert floor. He leaves only elongated footprints, like drag marks. He is clearly injured. He heads for nearby shelter. It is a series of low-lying rocks in an outcropping. In one corner is a small entrance to a cave.

MANY MANY YEARS AGO.

GREAT JARDEEAN DESERT-WESTERN REGION.

As the injured boy enters the cave, he realizes that the cave has an occupant already. A small fire burns near the center of a clearing. Illuminated all around are many drawings and written passages that line the walls like a prehistoric temple. But there is no grand artist to work this masterpiece. Instead, a small man wearing little and covered in Tattoos works diligently on a part of the wall.  “This is a private place, young man, I think you are lost?”

The boy, barely able to stand, stutters. “I. .I. .I am hiding, k. k. kind SIR. I didn’t know someone lived. . . here.”

Then he collapses. He is wounded and bleeding from his side. The man drops his paint and brush and hurries to the boy.

Near the cave entrance there is a commotion. Several Legion Warriors have arrived on mountback and are investigating the entrance. The captain of the Desert Patrol calls out. “I KNOW YOU ARE IN THERE, BOY. CONSIDER THIS YOUR TOMB!”

The warriors prepare a small package to explode and seal the cave. The old man waves a finger and at once all the soldiers are gone. In their place is a series of large stones. Nothing more. No trace of the Desert Patrol exists. With tears in his eyes, the man turns his attention to the injured boy.

An odd glow envelopes the whole cave as the tattooed man places a hand on the boy’s chest. The man closes his eyes and at once the boy is healed. He opens his eyes and with a speed and energy he didn’t know he had, jumps to his feet. He appraises his body. Except for a large hand print on his chest, he is without flaw. The tattooed man is silently sobbing.

“Don’t cry, old man. You have given me a great gift. I feel. .I feel, STRONG. SO, STRONG.”

“I do not weep for you. Be on your way and never forget this day.”

The healed child bows low. “I am your humble servant.”

 

TWO WEEKS AGO.

Mynx can hardly believe what she just heard. “A Weaver. SERIOUSLY?”

Ema has not changed the look on her face. This is not negotiable.

Mynx shakes her head in disgust. “Nothing else was available? Ok. Fine. I can handle it. I appreciate your confidence. I’LL TAKE IT.”

Ema says nothing.

“Where am I going?”

It seems the subject of her assignment is located in a very hot and dry place. Deep in the fog of the machine’s imagery is a tell-tale sign of the place this new target lives and works. Tribal people dancing around a fire during a dark night. Is this freak an indigenous person? Then a fleeting image of a robed, bald man looking forlornly at a large idol in what appears to be a temple of some kind. The subject is a weaver?

Ema finally speaks.  “This much we know. Your target is a monk, a Weaver, hiding out in the outback of Jardeen.

“Hiding? From what? Or from whom?”

Ema continues. “This is your objective, Mynx. We need a clear understanding of his needs and circumstances. Even the machine cannot get a clear read on this outlier. I only know a little about his motivation and, this is important, his abilities are rather curious. “

“Curious?”

“He is a powerful Weaver. Do not underestimate his abilities. It could be your undoing.”

 

NOW.

Mynx is having a fitful sleep. She is dreaming. It is a nightmare. These are common for her lately. What she sees are images from another time, another place. An ancient place. Warriors collide on a battlefield. She does not know where.

Many sudden twists and turns confuse her as the timeline is erratic. She cannot control the dream. Someone is watching the battle. A shadowy figure from a high place watches and smiles.

Dread fills Mynx and she fears death, not her own, but the death of others by her hand. Only the hands are not hers, they belong to someone else. She awakens in a sweat.  “Damn Weavers.”

 

The bonfire sends burning ash and smoke high into the twilight sky. The men chant and stomp their feet turning up even more dust. The whole spectacle has an ethereal air to it as the fire makes the smoky/dusty air glow orange red. Their ebony skin, painted with white streaks and shapes of the Dreamtime along with the noise of chanting and musical instruments stirs the emotions of the spectators. A religious fervor blooms in the desert night. The tribal elder holds aloft his spear and prepares to make a song in high praise.

The blaster barrel report echoes off the rocks and trees. It is hard to know how many guns there are in the confusion.

Many of the tribe scatter, many lay wounded and dying.

The stranger dressed in black and masked, sets his sights on the first gunman he sees and buries his foot in the man’s back. The man screams in agony and falls. Several other gunmen meet a similar fate but who is causing their grief is not clear. The stranger moves too quickly and stealthily.

Rifle blasters, in various stages of disrepair, bent, and useless lay on the desert floor. The stranger hovers over a body of a dying villager. He whispers softly. He removes his mask. Jonas, the stranger revealed, gives last prayers to the dying man. Tears fill his eyes. As the young man dies in Jonas’ arms, a shot rings out and catches him square in the side of the head. He topples over and lays flat on his back. Two men appear out of the dark.

“NICE SHOT, MATE.”

They approach the dead men. The second man nudges a dead body with his foot and then approaches Jonas to do the same. As his foot touches him, the Weaver grabs the man’s foot and tosses him like a small stone about 50 yards away into a set of nearby trees. He is impaled by a branch and dies instantly. The second man screams and starts to run. Jonas moves so fast his movements are not perceptible by the human eye. He stops directly in the killer’s path and stares menacingly with energy burning out of his eyes, filled with rage. The man runs right into Jonas and falls to his knees crying for mercy. Jonas is about to strike the man, but something makes him stop. In a blink Jonas is gone.

The man is left, with his own soiled uniform, to wonder why he was spared.

 

MANY, MANY YEARS AGO

The boy doesn’t understand. “The fabric of the universe?”

“The life and energy of the universe is woven, like a fabric, that tells the “story” of life everywhere in existence.”

“Woven?”

“Yes, the fabric is woven by life or energy everywhere. And we can weave that fabric if we learn how.”

The boy ponders this, skeptically. “We can weave the fabric of the universe?”

“Yes, now you understand.”

“Not really. It seems unlikely. I’m just, well, me.”

The old man sits down by the fire. “Now, you listen. EVERYONE can weave the fabric of the universe. You just have to know how.”

“Can you?”

The old man stands up very suddenly, without any of the usual effort. He holds up his arms to the night sky. His eyes roll back into his head. From high above him a twinkling of lights begins to flicker and build and roll together in a glowing mass. Then it begins to move slowly down until it hovers above them both. The old man spreads his arms wide, and the ball of energy expands into a giant sea of stars and planetary objects and galaxies that fills the sky.

And with a snap of his fingers, the night sky returns to darkness.

“And that, is just a small task. Come, Jonas, rest now. There is much to learn.”

 

NOW

The wounded lay flat and are being attended to by tribesmen and women. Several women, Weavers from the Kalgoor monastery, have arrived to help with the wounded and dying. Without any warning, the headman quietly asks the Weavers to leave. He gives no reason.

“JUST LEAVE US NOW. THANK YOU.”

The Weavers, having learned never to argue with headmen, pack up and leave.

The headman makes a sound with a small instrument. Everyone circles him and sits near a dying fire. They are eager for what he says next. He introduces the tribal priestess. She steps out of a small hut and approaches the group.

“WE MUST NOW ENTER INTO DREAMTIME. DARKNESS HAS ENTERED OUR LIVES AND WE MUST HURRY. ONLY DREAMTIME WILL MAKE US WELL AND HEAL OUR WOUNDS. FOR THERE ARE NO WOUNDS IN DREAMTIME.”

She hands them all a small satchel from which each member of the tribe removes a small root and immediately chews it and swallows. Within moments they all enter a deep trance-like state. Their eyes roll up into their heads and they writhe on the dusty ground. The priestess smiles and walks back towards the village. She removes her hood. Mynx is nearing her objective. This should get his attention.

 

NOT QUITE AS MANY YEARS AGO

Jonas is frightened and covered in blood and dirt. He and several others are running into a wide clearing where ahead of them another large group is plunging headlong straight at them.

Many large explosions begin to thin both sides as they grow closer together. His battlegroup, Legion #245, have been fighting the Jardeean War for 8 years. Jonas, a Weaver, was called to service under protest but until now had served faithfully and with honor. But his patience has grown thin. There no longer seems to be any reason behind the fighting. He has lost too many friends to count and killed scores more. For what? Spice?

Just as the two sides are nearly on top of one another, Jonas simply stops. Falls to his knees and begins to pray.

“WHAT AREW YOU DOING!!?? GET UP AND FIGHT!”

Ignoring the pleas, Jonas reaches out with his mind. He sees the enemy approaching. He sees the soil and rocks around them as it rises and contorts. A blanket of desert consumes the deadly hoard in an instant.

The battle is over.

Jonas weeps.

 

THIS MORNING

A great expanse of outback desert. The morning sun brings a warm glow and long shadows to the landscape. Chairman Butler appraises the view out his window. The building resides on the outskirts of The Great Desert. A land prosperous with untapped veins of spice. Open pit mining has been an ongoing industry in the spice fields region of Western Jardeen for nearly 200 years. Each new vein of spice comes with a new set of problems with the native populations. Butler is nearing his final solution to his most recent problem. One masked vigilante shouldn’t be able to cause this much trouble for so long.

Butler returns to his console and addresses a small group of men “seated” throughout the large, ornately decorated room. “Today is the day, gentlemen. Our “man” is finishing the task as we speak. We should be able to clean em out with little resistance by mid-Day.”

The company agent that failed to kill Jonas the previous night is neck deep in sand. His head is covered with deadly fire beetles. His screams are muted by the desert.

“Last night’s failure has been addressed appropriately. There will be no more delays, I assure you.”

The skeptical faces all disappear in a flick of electronic imagery.

 

Near the village, Jonas awakens perched high on a rock outcrop overlooking the inhabitants. The village priestess is making something in a cooking pot. She makes many chants and flails her arms around the fire. The villagers seem eager but stay at arm’s length of the priestess while she makes magic. Even the doggs hide in shadows of stones.

It is a little warm for it, but she doesn’t hesitate. The robes are much too heavy for assassin work. The Great Desert is inhospitable to most and Mynx is certainly not going to complain. The pay is very good. She is busy making incantations and making lots of arm movements. Jonas watches from his perch but is focused and lets her be. Waiting.

Mynx knows he is there. Her proximity detectors alerted her hours ago. He came as predicted. Suddenly she lets out a shout and a primal scream. She disrobes a to reveal herself and dances a wild and suggestive dance. Her body suit presents a powerful form.

Jonas, from his perch on the outcrop, floats to the ground and readies himself to face the creature by the fire. The villagers flee. Suddenly, the “priestess” stops dancing and hollering and stands stark still, facing Jonas. “So, here we are. At last.”

 

A FEW MORE YEARS AGO

After a decade of self-imposed exile, Jonas returns to the village of Kargool. With him comes 21 new Weavers. They quickly establish a Monastery. Tasked with protecting the inhabitants of the village and training themselves and new Weavers under the Fabric of the Universe. A fragile balance holds the region in peaceful embrace until a new quorum of off planet business efforts point their gaze at the valuable spice mines of Jardeen.

Jonas, ever reminded of his great sin, remains in solitude but in secret Jonas brings much needed relief to the victims of the quorum and continues to thwart any new mining endeavor. The business interests outweigh the needs of Weavers, it seems.

 

NOW

Jonas and Mynx stand ready, facing each other.

“Why do you serve such evil?”

“Evil? I’m just a hired hand. The politics mean nothing to me.”

She draws a blaster and fires but hits nothing. Jonas isn’t there.

But his voice continues. “I sense that you do care, Mynx.”

“Hah. Weaver nonsense. I have a job to do. Show yourself.”

She scans the area but finds no trace of Jonas.

“I don’t wish to destroy you, Mynx. You have great potential. I feel it.”

“HAHAHA. No. That’s a lie. How can you know anything about me?”

“I disabled your detection devices up there, on the ridge. But you still knew I was here. Didn’t you.”

She stops. “What? C’mon. No you didn’t. How could I. . .”

Jonas reappears. “You didn’t receive any notice from them. You only thought you did. Search your mind.”

She fires two more blasts into air.

“I must complete my mission. I don’t. . .I can’t. . .just stop this and face me.”

And there he is. No mask, no weapons, just flesh and bone. Waiting for deliverance.

“I could have destroyed you many times. You know this to be true. Rethink your choices, Mynx. There is greatness in you. These people could use your help.”

“You are foolish, Weaver.” Mynx raises her blaster and aims it at Jonas’ head. He doesn’t move.

He stands, arms open, eyes closed.

Villagers begin to take notice.

“This isn’t very sporting, Weaver. I don’t kill the eager to die. But do not be fooled. I am no Weaver.”

The disembodied voice of Jonas fills her mind. “YOU ARE, MYNX. YOU FEEL THE FABRIC, DON” T YOU?”

Her head explodes with the images of entire galaxies and planets, teeming with life and energy. The sounds of the grass growing under her feet flood her ears as the smell of dawn invades her nostrils. The blaster drops to the sand, noiseless. Tears fall freely.

“Oh! Oh My!”

When she opens her eyes, she is resting comfortably in Jonas arms.

 

LATER

Butler screamed at the communicator. “I can’t seem to get through to my contact. I don’t understand it.”

The image of Ema stood feet away from him. Arms folded, scowling.

“Did your emissary report?”

“My emissary has disappeared, Chairman. And, oh wow, I am looking at your value holdings and see a rather large increment has just been deposited. And, oh, goodness me, my employee’s value holdings have suddenly disappeared.”

Butler stood rigid. “What? I don’t. . .” He looked at his deposit screen. There was a large increment.

“How are you going to explain this to the quorum? Hmm?”

Jaw agape, “But, NO. I didn’t have anything to do with. . .you don’t think that I. . .wait. .just a moment, don’t report this, yet. I will figure it. . .”

Ema popped away.

 

And the next day the Chairman was found with a head full of fire beetles.

 

 

NOTE: The Weavers are unaware that they have been empowered by The Force. Jardeen is an unaligned world so far from the events of the rest of the known Galactic Republic, they have evolved with the Force on their own. Only the First Weaver, who arrived from deep in the known galaxy by accident, has any recollection of the Old Republic and the Force. His training of Jonas establishes the first Weaver Temple in the outer Galaxy.

 

COPYRIGHT COOK PUBLISHING 2021