Star Wars Myths & Fables Read online

  After a time the Wanderer rose to his feet and, with a final glance at those who had gathered to watch him work, turned his back and walked off the platform, making a path through the crowd toward the city gates.

  Sure enough, the creatures followed. Forming a grotesque, glistening carpet of swarming carapaces, they scuttled behind him in a long chain, the noise of their passing a thunderous roar.

  The people watched in awe as the Wanderer led the creatures through the city gate and off into the chill of the night, back toward the derelict drill site. The creatures returned from whence they had come, and the people of Solace understood that they must never drill again, lest they stir the creatures once more from their nests.

  * * *

  The final appearance of the Wanderer came some years later still, when raging storms threatened to breach the city walls. Great tidal waves from the Boralic Sea crashed down upon the turrets and towers, washing briny water through the streets to carry away people, animals, and buildings in its path.

  The Boralic Sea was a large body of water that served both the city of Solace and, to a lesser extent, the nearby city of Mock. Solace had grown up on the shores of the murky water and had for many thousands of years benefited from this proximity, as the sea provided a ready supply of fish and sea vegetables, and salt and rare spices were extracted from its depths.

  Yet the storms that assaulted the city that year were like none that had come before, and many suspected unnatural forces were at play. Lightning crackled across a nightmarish sky, rain and hail thrummed upon rooftops, and thunder clapped so loud that it shattered windows and sent people cowering in fear. Yet this was as nothing compared with the vast waves that were thrown up from the sea, crashing again and again against the city walls like the engines of a siege, battering down the defenses in an effort to drown everything within.

  There was nothing to be done, and as the walls began to crumble, the people knew that the city might be doomed at any moment, should a big enough wave rise from the sea to wash the remaining mortar away.

  Plans were made to evacuate, but the people knew their days were numbered, for to brave the storm without the shelter of the walls would mean certain death.

  Yet the waves continued to rise, ever bigger, and they knew not what to do.

  And then, as suddenly as if he had ridden in on the storm itself, the Wanderer was amongst them once again, and though he appeared the same as he ever had, those who saw him reported that he carried himself with a weariness that belied his calm exterior.

  Despite his seemingly heavy burdens, he would not see the people of Solace come to harm, and ever defiant, he strode from the city toward the sea, his arms raised above his head. The crest of an immense wave rose to greet him and—to the amazement of all—the Wanderer held it back.

  The wave rippled and roared in fury, towering high above the Wanderer’s head, but all the while he remained standing on the beach, a serene expression on his face, his arms held high as if throwing up an unshakable barrier around himself and the city.

  For nearly an hour he stood his ground, pushing back against the water, a battle of wills—but the sea was not to win that day, and as the storm finally broke, the waters calmed and retreated, and the wave finally collapsed, sloping back to the sea where it belonged.

  The Wanderer broke his stance, and the city was saved.

  Some say that he stayed to aid in the recovery after the storm, wandering the streets to drag the afflicted from their waterlogged homes, while others claim he melted into the dawn with the last patter of rain, that serene smile still writ upon his face.

  * * *

  Never again was the Wanderer seen by the people of Solace—not even when the Dark Wraith rose from the underworld to strike them down—and yet his story persists amongst those who survived the ruination, and his tale is still told beside hearths throughout the land, for the people of Cerosha know that he is out there still, wandering from world to world, helping those who cannot help themselves.

  T THE VERY HEART OF Black Spire Outpost on the planet Batuu, there stands the bole of an ancient tree so tall and so black that all who pass in its shadow are compelled to look up in wonder and astonishment at its petrified boughs. It is whispered amongst the locals that, in its thousands of years of existence, the tree has witnessed so many terrible acts perpetrated by the settlers on its world that its very soul has shriveled and turned to soot—that it wished so much to retreat from the terrors it has seen that it left nothing but a shadow of itself in the world.

  Yet wherever there is darkness there is light, and thus the tree, in its long life, has witnessed the advent of heroes, too.

  One such tale concerns the adventure of a young girl named Anya, whose story of heroism is near forgotten now, except by that towering spire, which clings to her memory as a shining beacon of hope amidst the darkness.

  In days now long passed there lived a family on Batuu, out in the Saka homestead, away from all the bustle and noise of the village and its industry. Four siblings lived alone with their mother, for their father had died years before in a terrible supply-run accident, and the mother—ever true to the memory of her lost beloved—had continued to run the family grain farm in his honor.

  The children and their mother were happy and lived a simple, peaceful life, taking their bounty from the land and visiting the village only rarely to trade food for goods. Yet being a single mother of four was a trying occupation, and oftentimes she would send her children out to play, wishing only for a moment’s peace and quiet while she prepared the family meal or saw to the washing of their clothes.

  The oldest child—the only boy amongst three girls—

  had been born with a mischievous streak and, on such an occasion of being told to take his sisters out to play, led them down to the edge of the Surabat River Valley, just as the sun was beginning its slow descent for the evening. The children’s mother had long before forbidden them from venturing so far away from the homestead, claiming the valley was a dangerous place, but the children saw only the vast, unspoiled beauty of it, filled as it was with flowers and trees and brightly plumed birds. They laughed and cajoled one another, running through the long grasses, trailing their fingers across the stems of wildflowers, cavorting around the trunks of trees. They decided as they splashed through the river shallows and skipped stones across the shimmering water that they had found the perfect place for their adventures. They made a pact not to tell their mother of their visit and agreed that, upon their very first chance the next day, they would return to the valley to continue their game.

  So it was that, after a restless night’s sleep—during which the three girls planned their games in hushed tones—the children finished their chores and bid their mother good-bye before heading out for the valley, giggling and nervous at their small act of rebellion.

  As before, they found the valley deserted by all but the chirruping birds and a few colorful lizards that scattered as the children screeched and ran. The youngest child, Anya, found a shaded spot beneath a tree and covered her eyes, counting while the others ran to hide. Then she hurried, giddy, from place to place, searching them out. Soon enough she had found both her sisters—one had wormed her way into a hollow log, and the other had crouched behind a boulder in the mouth of a small cave. Yet, try as she might, she could find no trace of her brother. After nearly an hour of searching, Anya began to grow weary and called on her sisters to help her. Yet even after combining their efforts, they could not locate their mischievous brother, so good was his hiding place and so cunning was he.

  More time passed, and the girls began to grow concerned. They called their brother’s name, searched every conceivable crevice, and climbed trees to get a better view of the valley, but still they could not find him. Had he fallen and hurt himself? Was he merely teasing them, refusing to reveal himself until they successfully sought him out?

  As the light began to fade, the girls convinced themselves that, playful as he was, thei
r brother had clearly left for home ahead of them and would no doubt be sitting with his feet up, ready to laugh at them for all the time they had spent searching for a hiding place he had never used. Yet Anya could not shake the nagging doubt that he would never be so cruel. Filled with uncertainty, the sisters set out for the homestead.

  Upon their return, however, the girls found their mother alone, still stooped over the cooking pot, and there was no sign of their wayward brother. Terrified of what might have become of him, the girls hid in their room, where they remained until dinner, confused and afraid. Upon sitting down to eat, the girls’ mother saw that her son had not returned for his meal, and she inquired after his whereabouts—and at that the girls were forced to relate their troubling tale.

  As she heard their story, their mother’s eyes grew wide in fear, and, her voice choked, she told them the true reason why they had been dissuaded from ever visiting the valley. For there were whispered tales of children who had gone missing in that same valley, and rumors that the notorious criminal Sampa Grott had, on occasion, taken his sail barge there to lure the unwary aboard with promises of sweets and delicacies only to steal them away, back to his hidden lair, where they were put to work and never heard from again.

  The mother was distraught, for she knew that her son was lost to her forever. There was no recourse; despite the desperate cries of the girls, there was little hope for the boy’s return. They could never raise enough credits to buy the boy back from the slavers, for they were poor and lived off the land, and had nothing of much value to sell or trade. Nor were there any who would take up their cause, for Black Spire Outpost was a lawless place, and those in power had little time for local complaints or missing children. The boy was gone, and the family could do nothing but mourn for him.

  Horrified, the three girls made a pact amongst themselves that they would see to the safe return of their brother, for while they heeded well their mother’s warning, they could not just sit by and accept the boy’s fate.

  Thus, the following dawn, while their mother huddled in her bed still racked by sobs, the eldest daughter took up her late father’s farming sickle and, urged on by her siblings, set out for Black Spire Outpost in search of her brother.

  For the remaining two sisters, the day seemed to stretch interminably. They could think of nothing but the safe return of their siblings, and they paced the boundary of the homestead, watching the horizon for any hint of their coming. In the distance, however, they could see only the towering pillar of an ancient black tree, a sentinel from another age, staring back at them in tense silence.

  As the light faded and the suns slipped beneath the distant horizon, still there was no sign of their absent siblings, and soon the girls were forced to admit the worst—that in going after their brother, their eldest sister had likely been caught by the slavers, too.

  That night their mother wept still more, this time for the loss of her eldest daughter. She was certain the girl would never return and all her worst fears had been realized.

  The two remaining girls tossed and turned, jumping at every noise, hopeful that every woot of a skindle or howl of a flintwing was the sound of their siblings finally returning to the homestead. Yet it was not to be, and with the coming of the dawn, the middle sister made her decision. She, too, would set out for Black Spire Outpost, to seek information about her missing siblings.

  Anya, however, was less certain, for she worried at the thought of losing yet another sibling to the yoke of the slavers, and she begged her sister not to go. The other girl would not be dissuaded, though, insistent that she had no choice but to act. So it was that the middle girl took up her late father’s blaster and, after telling Anya to remain at home to look after their mother, no matter what else occurred, set out in the footsteps of her elder sister to mount a rescue attempt of her own.

  Anya could not bring herself to face her grieving mother, to admit that another of the woman’s daughters had put herself at grave risk and set out to confront the slavers at the Outpost, so instead she passed the day in pilgrimage to the Trilon Wishing Tree, upon which she tied a knotted strip of fabric, hoping beyond hope that her wish might be granted and she might yet see the safe return of her siblings. She desired nothing so desperately as to be greeted by their beaming faces at the homestead that evening, to sit and listen in glee as they related their noble adventures.

  Alas, when she arrived home, Anya found only her mother, disconsolate and withdrawn, a woman broken by the knowledge of what had become of her children.

  At that, Anya fled to the woods, unable to endure the sound of her mother’s mournful cries. There, she curled up in the little shelter she and her sisters had built from woven branches and began to sob.

  Soon enough, the sound of her weeping brought footfalls crunching across the forest floor. Anya had grown wary of strangers, and while she hoped in her heart that the newcomer might prove to be one of her siblings, she dared not peek out. Instead, she cowered inside the shelter, bringing her knees up beneath her chin, stifling her tears in the crook of her arm.

  The footsteps stopped outside the shelter. Anya’s heart beat so fast she thought she might faint. And then the figure appeared at the mouth of the shelter, stooped low, and peered in. Anya stared back at the newcomer in horror. It was a man, dressed in brown robes and wearing a dark beard speckled with strands of gray. Despite the kindly expression he wore, Anya was terrified of him.

  “Go away,” she told him, for she feared he was a slaver, grown bold by recent success and come for her in the woods.

  “I come only to help,” said the man. “I heard your tears and wished to inquire what was wrong.”

  Anya shook her head, wiped her eyes, and remained exactly where she was.

  The newcomer was persistent, though, and went down on his hands and knees to edge his way into the shelter and kneel before her. “I mean you no harm,” he said, and she could tell by his warm manner and the mournful look in his eyes that he spoke the truth. “Tell me your woes, for I might yet be able to help.”

  So Anya laid out her story for the kindly man, reciting the sorrowful tale of her brother and sisters, and what her mother feared had become of them.

  When she had finished, the man seemed to consider her words. “You must go after them,” he said, finally, with a long, plaintive sigh, “for you are the only one who can see your siblings restored to their mother.”

  Appalled by the very notion, Anya protested. If her older sisters had failed, how could she, a young girl, ever hope to stand a chance against the slavers?

  “You face a turning point in the road of your young life,” the man explained. “You must believe in your own strength.”

  The girl objected once more. “But I have no weapon.” She explained how her eldest sister had taken her father’s sickle, her middle sister had taken his blaster, and there was naught left for her.

  “Ah,” said the man, “but you are young, and small, and no one shall suspect you of great things.”

  Anya saw the truth in those words, and the prospect terrified her. Yet she was the only one left who could make a difference, for no one else would take up the quest in her place—not even the man, who smiled sadly at the thought but then shook his head, assuring her that the best path forward lay with her and her alone.

  Still, she had no weapon, so the man took up a fallen branch and fashioned for her a small dagger from the dark wood. “This is just a toy,” protested Anya as she turned it over in her hands, but the man was already retreating from the shelter and simply urged her on with a sad smile.

  Anya hurried out of the shelter after him, but he had already gone, melting away into the darkening woods. Bemused, she tucked the wooden dagger into her belt and ran home to her bed.

  The following morning Anya woke with fire in her heart, for while she remained fearful of the slavers, her fear had been overtaken by her determination. The man in the woods had been right—she alone could help her brother and sisters, for her
mother had been consumed by her terror and grief, and the only remedy was their safe return.

  So it was that Anya set out for Black Spire Outpost that morning, clutching her wooden dagger, intent on bringing the whole sorry episode to a close.

  Anya had previously visited the Outpost with her mother but never before on her own, and the towering trunks of the petrified trees seemed dark and ominous as she approached, guardians that sought to usher her away, for she had no place wandering such a dangerous path alone.

  It was there that she was drawn to a small, hollow fragment of a petrified tree that she found along the roadside. Something inside her sensed it would bring her good fortune, so she tucked it into her belt and continued on her journey, fighting back her fear, encouraged still by what the robed man had said to her the previous night.

  The Outpost was bustling with beings the likes of which she had rarely seen—with long, craning necks or blue skin and head-tails or horns or shimmering metal bodies—but just as the stranger had said, no one spared her a second look, for they were all intent on their own business, and in her they saw only a child unworthy of their lofty attention.

  For much of the day, Anya combed the streets of the Outpost, until at last, huddling in the mouth of an alleyway, tired and desperate, she overheard the whispered words of two ne’er-do-wells. They muttered in low tones about Sampa Grott and how one of them, a Gran, had been swindled by Sampa in a recent deal. The Gran made bold claims to his Ithorian friend, stating that he was heading directly to Sampa’s Cradle to confront Sampa over his lost credits. When the conversation was finished and the Ithorian had slipped away, Anya set out to follow the Gran, tracing his path through the winding alleyways of the Outpost and beyond, deep into the foggy, uninhabited areas of the Surabat River Valley where no one ever ventured.

  In the depths of the miasmic fog, Anya found herself in a terrifying place, filled with belching, oily smoke and mechanical grinding, where the hulks of huge machines were piled high like the skeletons of massive beasts left to rot in a macabre graveyard. Slaves worked in their multitudes, hacking and sawing and sifting and sorting, all beneath the watchful gaze of the slavers who had taken them there. This, then, was Sampa’s Cradle, his hidden lair, the dreadful place where he took all those he had lured onto his sail barge.