Saga - Legends The Book of Gand, Parts 1–3 (mostly OCs)

Thank you all, as always, for your thoughtful and perceptive comments. It's no exaggeration to say that they never fail to give me new perspectives on my own writing.

That's definitely an interesting perspective on the ritual, and one that I confess hadn't occurred to me. I wonder, too, whether those things aren't necessarily considered such a strict dichotomy in the Gand worldview...

Thanks so much! I imagine these various Findsman examinations as being very high-pressure, physically and emotionally—and I imagine that the examiners adjust level of that pressure very specifically to match the abilities and individual characteristics of each student. Obviously the examiners have picked up some inkling in the Mists of this particular student's future career. Furthermore, the dean of the temple herself doesn't turn out for the examination of just any student.

Well, shucks. That's a huge compliment coming from you, and I'm glad to oblige. Those are all excellent questions, and now I'm kicking myself slightly for having failed to answer them with sufficient clarity in this chapter. Okkfel's unfriendliness is meant to just be his personality; he's simply the type of teacher who uses harsh criticism as a tool to push his students to achieve at a higher level (which some students out there find helpful. The young Zuckuss has long been used to getting comments on his similarities to his father (see chapter 6 above), so that in and of itself doesn't necessarily bother him—but you will see him getting headstrong in the very next chapter. As for the missing artifact, it'll be back, never fear.

I'm afraid I haven't been very good about the regular update schedule so far (), but I will try to rectify that. (No Yoda quotes, please! )

Yes, that's certainly part of the idea. And even if the posture has indeed already been taught (and I know I don't make that clear, perhaps on purpose ), there's still the challenge of adjusting to a new set of standards; Okkfel is certainly much more of a stickler than whatever previous instructors Zuckuss may have had (who after all were dealing with groups of students rather than individuals).

And now, on with the hunt (such as it is)!


Chapter VIII

Two hours passed. Zuckuss had by now scanned over the entire complex of the Lhúdanswani temple in the eye of his intuition and had determined at least the approximate location of each of the objects and beings listed. His rhythmic breathing provided fuel for the vision, keeping the colors clear and the outlines sharp. Now it was just a matter of committing it all to memory so that he could go forth to retrieve his quarry and bring it before the three Masters.

But he was finding it difficult to do so. He was not sure why; this kind of hunting exercise had never been hard for him before, not even when it involved hunting for his fellow apprentices or temple servants or any other being that could move from place to place. Part of it, of course, was this business with his posture; he was loath to incur Okkfel’s wrath any more than absolutely necessary. But he knew that was not all. Luyen’s mysterious words were haunting him, eroding his concentration. When your own turn comes, she had said—his own turn to leave his homeworld, finally and inevitably. When, and how, and why? Curiosity ate away at him, even as he struggled to channel his intuitive energy toward the hunt at hand. And now that the mystical imprints of the hunted objects glimmered before him, he felt he could no longer resist it; it was growing, creeping across his mental view of the temple like a dank evening fog . . . then suddenly spinning up into a whirling, rushing darkness that enveloped the whole of Gand, dispersing her sacred Mists and scattering her Findsmen like frightened gryckle-chicks throughout the galaxy . . .

“But if the time of the Uncanny One really is at hand—”

Zuckuss felt himself speaking these words aloud but stopped short, realizing suddenly that the voice issuing from his throat was somehow not his own. Was it was his father’s? Volokoss’s? Okkfel’s? Or was it the voice of some long-dead Findsman of yore? Of Trynfor himself . . . ?

Suddenly pair of glowing golden orbs—were they eyes?—flashed before him, momentarily blinding out his mental image of the temple before dying away just as suddenly. And then a voice, this time close and familiar:

“So it is true!”

He became aware of a hand on his shoulder, and his eyes twitched open almost against his will. One of his examiners had just performed the technique called Hand of Rescue, used to stop the meditation of another—and Zuckuss noticed, to his great consternation and disgust, that it had been Okkfel.

“What was the meaning of that, Apprentice Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd?”

“Apologies, Findsmaster Okkfel . . .” came the quiet response. “It was nothing . . . just a distraction . . .”

“Then banish it from your mind and begin again.”

“Yes, Findsmaster Okkfel.”

“A true Lhúdanswani Findsman must let nothing distract him. Nor does he waste his energy on needless chatter. Understood?”

“Yes, Findsmaster Okkfel . . .” Zuckuss bit his tongue with his inmost mandibles, wishing he could banish his vexation with another Stillness of the Fog.

“Now be gentle on the youth, Okkfel,” put in Volokoss. “Is it any surprise that the coming of the Uncanny One is of concern to him, being as he is of the Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd?”

“Immaterial,” retorted Okkfel, his exoskeleton making an unpleasant crunch as he crossed his arms tightly before him. “He was not asked to hunt for the Uncanny One. And he should know”—here he glared sidelong at Zuckuss—“that no one can hunt for the Uncanny One. The Uncanny One is the zaviir beyond all zavr’aii. Do not tell me Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd did not teach his son that.”

This reminder of his father’s coldness was too much for Zuckuss. His mandibles ground in anger as he jumped to his feet and struck Okkfel mightily in the thorax, sending him crashing backward into the corner of the bookcase. An incense lamp that had been sitting on one shelf fell to the floor, shattering instantly.

“WHY—YOU—”

Hoisting himself to his feet with an agility surprising for his bulk, Okkfel grabbed Zuckuss by the collar of his robe and struck him violently against the wall. Zuckuss shrieked in pain, not only at the blow but also at the painful electrical feedback shooting into him through Okkfel’s clenched hands.

“ENOUGH!” Luyen interposed herself, freeing Zuckuss from Okkfel’s grip. “Taagu, let the youth go! And Apprentice Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, what in the name of the Holy Madman did you mean by such behavior toward a Findsmaster?”

Seized by sincere shame at this admonition from the dean of the temple, Zuckuss shrunk back and made a deep obeisance.

“Gand apologizes most humbly, Findslady Luyen . . . Findsmaster Okkfel . . . Gand behaved shamefully . . .”

Volokoss was soon at the young apprentice’s side, helping him up from his slumped position against the wall. “Now, your feelings are only natural, young one, but—”

“No need, Volokoss, Findslady Luyen.” Okkfel’s large, rough mandibles clacked as he straightened his robes. “It gladdens Okkfel to see that the youth is not completely devoid of spirit. He has the makings of a fine warrior. Taagu should not have underestimated him.”

Befoggèd right you shouldn’t have, thought Zuckuss to himself, smoothing his own robes and returning to the meditation couch.

Luyen stood silent in thought for a moment, then gave a little click.

“Well, it certainly does take no small amount of spirit to stand up to Luyen’s esteemed colleague here. You are forgiven this time, Apprentice Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd. But not a second time.”

Zuckuss bowed slightly. “Understood, Findslady Luyen.”

“Now, breathe for a moment . . . return to balance . . .” He obeyed, closing his eyes as he inhaled and exhaled three times. “There. Are you ready now to continue your hunt?”

Zuckuss bowed slightly. “Yes, Findslady Luyen.”

She raised her hand in a gesture of combined command and blessing. “Then go forth and hunt, in the name of the Sacred Visionary Mists.”

* * *

The rest of the hunting exercise went smoothly. Even more so than Zuckuss had expected; it was as though lashing out at Okkfel had banished his anxiety and given him a new measure of intuitive clarity. With the luminous mental map of the temple before him in his mind’s eye, he searched efficiently and effortlessly through the halls and chambers of the Lhúdanswani temple. Upon finding each required object, he placed it carefully in one of the inner pockets of his robes, taking care not to place the more fragile objects with anything that might damage them; the smallest scratch on any of them would be grounds for disciplinary action, invalidating the hunt. The six beings he had been tasked with hunting—the three servants, the two apprentices, and the secretary droid—accompanied him wordlessly and without resistance, for every denizen of the Lhúdanswani temple was well accustomed to this kind of exercise. Only the droid, a slightly out-of-date modified courier model, emitted the occasional querulous bleep as it was led through the glowing hallways. Not more than two hours had elapsed before he and those for whom he had hunted stood before the door to the examination room.

Zuckuss tapped discreetly on the door with his claw, then waited a moment. But there was no answer. He waited again, then tapped again; again there was no answer. Then he put his hand to the door handle and turned it as quietly as he could.

All three of the senior Findsmen were seated in an attitude of deep meditation, with their eyes closed and their hands folded in their laps. Each was a model of absolutely correct Lhúdanswani posture. The room was completely quiet except for occasional minute hisses of breath.

Zuckuss stood for several moments looking at them, then glanced back at his mock captives, then back at his meditating examiners. He was not sure how to proceed. He did not want to disturb his three examiners in their meditation, yet he also felt that he should do something and not just stand there like a gak-graak in the salt flats of Rhai’úthaa (as, he noted to himself with some amusement, Findsmaster Okkfel might say). At last, he decided to pass the time by removing the found objects from his pockets one by one and placing them as quietly as he could on various pieces of furniture around the room. He made a careful heap of the shockstun cartridges on a low table; he laid the matching vibroblades side by side, in order of size, on one shelf of the bookcase. All the while his mock captives stood quietly behind him. Some gazed in awe at the stately, motionless forms of the three meditating Findsmasters; others glanced around, taking in the room; yet others shuffled slightly in mild impatience, even as they maintained the requisite uncomplaining silence.

At last Zuckuss reached into the inner breast pocket of his cloak to retrieve the miniature portrait of his ancestor, Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd . . .

—He is undisciplined and his technique is slipshod. Better should be expected of the son of the Guardian.

Zuckuss looked up suddenly, his hand still on the small, framed shellackoid oval. It was as though words, phrases, thoughts, had materialized soundlessly but unambiguously within his mind. Yet he thought he knew what voice would have gone with those words had they been spoken aloud . . .

—But you must admit, his courage is admirable. And again; these words would have belonged to a different, but equally familiar, voice. And his natural talents are great. His technique will refine itself naturally with time.

“Is something amiss with Your Mystical Honor?”

Zuckuss jumped at the sound of a real, audible voice. It belonged to one of the three female temple servants, one with purple-gray chitin who assisted in the healing wing, and she had run to his side.

“Yes . . . that is, no . . .” Zuckuss noticed that he had withdrawn his hand from his pocket and placed it to his temple as if in response to pain; he put it down at once and drew back from the healing servant’s approach. “Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd is not impaired . . . it will pass…”

Again the first silent interlocutor spoke.

—Talent without discipline is useless. He will need a strong hand to guide him on the correct path in his studies.

—No, no, it is gentler guidance that he needs. There is much that is troubling him deep within, and too hard a touch will only trouble him more.

—Those troubles will only impede him. With these words Zuckuss felt a sudden twinge of cold. He must uproot them from his soul if he is to become a true Findsman.

—Does he really? Nowhere in the sacred writings of Gand does it say that the Findsman must relinquish his natural emotions. Even the deepest fears and troubles can become a source of strength when channeled properly. And he will learn how.

—What is this, Ratokk? Zuckuss flinched as the cold sensation intensified, now feeling like a frosted dagger piercing his brain. Have you become a soft Krúvanswani?

—Peace, Taagu. A third interlocutor now interposed, speaking words that would have resonated with the grave voice of the Lhúdanswani dean. Do not speak of what you do not know. Both of you shall leave this to be discussed later, for the youth has returned.

At these words the three Findsmasters opener their eyes, rose, and turned to face Zuckuss and his group of captives. Zuckuss immediately stood at attention and bowed to them in the customary manner, and the group behind him followed suit. Luyen first gestured to Volokoss and Okkfel, who began to sort systematically through the objects Zuckuss had left on the tables, ensuring that all of them were there and that none of them were damaged. Then Luyen approached the six mock captives, counted and inspected them as though they were troops, then proceeded to dismiss each of them except the secretary droid one by one with soft words and gestures of blessing. To the droid she simply whispered a few instructions before sending it away.

Through it all Zuckuss stood still and watched, his gaze moving from Luyen to the captives and to Volokoss, Okkfel, and the found objects in turn. Had these three august Masters been able to sense him eavesdropping on their meditative deliberations? It was not as though he had meant too, after all . . . Their expressions—as staid and expressionless as ever—offered no clue. Yet there again, growing with each moment, seeming to creep from the very core of his eyes, was that same cold ache in his head. Certainly they know. How could they not . . . ?

After a few minutes Luyen dismissed the last of the mock captives, the healing servant with the purple-gray chitin. The other two Findsmasters were still engaged in counting the objects placed on the shelf and table when once again Zuckuss felt the silent words obtruding on his consciousness, and with them the same pang of piercing cold:

—The Flygg shellackoid. Everything is here except the Flygg shellackoid.

Zuckuss started at these words: had he really forgotten to retrieve one of the objects on the list? Failure to retrieve anything less then all of them would mean he had failed the test and would be banned from continuing his apprenticeship . . .

Quickly he checked the four inner pockets of his cloak. There indeed, in one of the breast pockets, was the round, smooth outline of the miniature portrait, which he had forgotten to remove.

Another soundless mental voice cut in. Is it not on the shelf beside the vibroblades?

—No. It is neither there nor on the table. He has obviously failed to find it.

—Are you absolutely certain? put in the third speaker. Look again. It would be almost impossible for him not to find it.

—Okkfel assures both of you that it is not there. He has clearly not found it. Your precious Uncanny One has failed.

The icy pain in Zuckuss’s head was now stronger than ever. He could no longer hold back. Straightening up, he strode over to Okkfel, drew the portrait from his pocket, and held it up before the senior Findsman’s face.

“Begging your pardon, Findsmaster Okkfel.” He spoke firmly but calmly. “Zuckuss has not failed.”

Okkfel jumped, his mouthparts clacking open in surprise. He was speechless as he took the small oval portrait and stood looking at it, almost scrutinizing it, for a few moments, as if ensuring that it was the correct object. The other two Findsmasters watched, and Zuckuss noticed that neither of them could stifle a few clicks of amusement.

“Well, befog this old Taagu, there it is,” he murmured at last, then turned hastily to the Lhúdanswani dean. “With your permission, Findslady Luyen, as was agreed upon . . .”

Luyen made a gesture of approval with her hand, upon which Okkfel handed the portrait back to Zuckuss.

“You should really keep this, young one. It is yours by right.”


Notes

The term zaviir was established in SW:TOR (see http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zaviir-juna); the plural zavr'aii was made up by me.

Pretty much all the other Gand terminology in this chapter is my own creation, and most of it is described in my Glossary of Gand Findsman Techniques, Rituals, and Terminology in the Fanon thread. I'll be adding to that list as needed (or trying to).

By the way, if there's anything anyone thinks I should be explaining in these notes that I'm not, then please let me know!

 

Thanks! I am indeed trying to get across the idea that these masters, even the more understanding ones, don't quite know what to do with a student like this one. And at the same time, Zuckuss has to deal with the challenge of walking the fine line between his own outspoken tendencies and the strictures of Gand protocol. (I've left it up to the reader whether his rather extraordinary growth treatment at the end of part 1 plays into this.) So there's a certain amount of awkwardness happening on all sides. By the way, thanks again for your invaluable help in beta-reading this.

Well, yes, pretty much.

Oh, gee, once again a very apt question that makes me feel like I didn't do the best job of clarifying things. Control is certainly an issue for him at this point (see above); I guess what I'm trying to get at with this scene is that his powers do include the ability to eavesdrop on telepathic conversations like this, but he hasn't really learned to regulate it much yet—which is what makes the act of "listening in" kind of a painful experience for him (compare his eavesdropping on his father's vision in chapter 5).

Why, thanks! Details like that are some of my favorite things to write. I'm glad the mental voices sounded different enough from each other and not too corny; it can be hard sometimes making that kind of telepathic communication not come off as stereotyped.

Thanks so much—that means a lot to me coming from someone who's done such a beautiful job writing about the Force and Force powers. I'm relieved that came off all right; there, too, too, it can be challenging writing control-and-emotion debates like this without them sounding too stereotyped or Jedi-like. Not that there's anything wrong with the Jedi, of course, and probably such debates come up in just about every mystical tradition in the Galaxy—but yes, since this is a different mystical tradition, "a different perspective and... ever-so-slightly shifted priorities" is indeed what I'm going for (perfect way of putting it!).

And finally, many, many thanks to those who nominated this story for Best Canon and Best Epic in this year's fanfic awards. That really means so much coming from such a swell bunch of readers.

 

Replying very belatedly to a few comments (and yes, it means the next chapter's on the way... but I still have a workday ahead, so don't get too excited just yet ):

Thanks so much! I'm honored by the comparison to Richard Adams, because I read Watership Down in middle school and was immensely fascinated by it, and it of course is one of the archetypal "create an entire non-human culture, language, and society" works out there: he had this amazing balance between things that were familiar from human culture and other things that were totally different (e.g., five as "a thousand"). That balance is exactIy what I'm striving for in this story, and I'm sure Watership Down is at least an unconscious influence in the kind of world-building I'm trying to do, taking the bits and pieces in official lore as a starting point.

I do hear you on that; Garamond definitely has that tendency. I can play around with it a bit and see what something bigger might look like—maybe Palatino or Baskerville or similar, or I may just stick with the default board font for the next few chapters. Would that work?

Anyone else have thoughts about this? I'd also be curious to know whether anyone thinks I should go back and change earlier chapters to be more readable, also.

Thank you! That is pretty much exactly what I'm going for in portraying him, so I appreciate that it seems to be working. My idea about the ability to overhear the mental conversation wasn't really meant to be connected to the portrait per se as much as being another instance of his prodigious raw talent cropping up at a somewhat inopportune moment. But you're absolutely right to pick up on the combination of that with the illustrious (!) family history he has hanging over him, sword-of-Damocles-like—it's a difficult combination that he will grapple with all throughout the story, and that will lead to... I don't know what quasi-catastrophic happenings and revelations later.

With the Force tradition issue too I'm trying to strive for balance: I imagine there must be some similar basic themes and questions that are common to all Force traditions in the Galaxy, andI want to highlight the fact that those exist while at the same time giving the unique elements of this one their due (and especially those elements that are different from the Force traditions we know most about).

Why thanks, I appreciate those kind words very much. I was thrilled and honored to have gotten those nominations. The obscure corners of the GFFA are getting to be some of my favorite parts of it, and the Gands' particular obscure corner is one that, for whatever reason, has fascinated me ever since I first read about it. And if thoughtful, discriminating readers like y'all enjoy my modest attempts at developing that obscure corner, that's the cherry on the sundae, the candied violet on the cake!

And hooray for alien stories! It's really been exhilaratingly fun to be helping represent that side of fanfic alongside the immensely talented Ewok Poet.

More soon...

 

An update at last! This chapter will take us to Gand's lower status and income bracket, and will introduce someone new and rather important. I am going to post it in the normal board font, just to see how that works out.

As always, please let me know whether you would like to be tagged on future updates. It's been so long since my last update I'm not sure who from my original list still would like to be tagged!

Heartiest thanks to Kahara for beta-reading and providing helpful and much-appreciated feeback.

---

Chapter IX


It was two hours past midnight in R’Kalýma. Still silver-gray mists hung ominously about the Lhúdanswani temple and its surrounding peaks. Four hours ago the signal-chimes had heralded the beginning of the evening rest period. All was dark in the temple except for a few points of light in the windows of the dormitory wing, where apprentices were engaged in the customary nighttime devotions and meditative exercises.

Zuckuss was in his quarters as well, ostensibly similarly occupied. But his mind was filled less with meditative formulas and sacred texts than with his examination earlier that day. He remembered how Findslady Luyen had blessed and dismissed him, telling him that his assigned Findsmaster would call on him in his quarters first thing tomorrow—if, and only if, she was careful to stress,it were the will of the Mists that he advance in his studies. He remembered how he had bowed and responded with deference, as was customary. But then, as now, he had been filled with secret pride in his performance and his abilities. All doubt in his mind had been vanquished: he was indeed going to advance in his studies, and it was indeed the will of the Mists that he should do so. Best of all—and he could not stifle a few clacks of pride to think of it—he had also proven as much, in no uncertain terms, to that tiresome old overkreetle of a Findsmaster, Okkfel Taagu. That will teach him to underestimate the Uncanny One! For of that too he was now certain.

Having closed his devotions with one final Stillness of the Fog, Zuckuss removed his outer robes and relaxed onto his side on the round couch in his meditation alcove. He drew the miniature portrait of his ancestor from his inner pocket and studied it. Just small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, it showed a serious-looking Gand male with silver eyes, clad in dark brown Findsman’s field robes of an old-fashioned style. Above and to the right of Zukfel’s image was the family emblem of the Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd: the golden orb crossed by the dagger and the toothed key, and grasped by the clawed hand. Everything—the folds of the clothing, the texture of the chitin, the individual facets of the eyes, the serrations of the key and dagger—was rendered in minute, delicate detail.

For some time Zuckuss simply lay there contemplating the tiny artwork. As he studied it, marveling at its meticulous workmanship, he became struck by the strong similarity between the portrait’s features and his own. The renowned Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, closest friend of the legendary Trynfor the Mad, looked like nothing so much as an older version of himself—or perhaps a younger version of his father, which was essentially the same thing. Almost desperately he scanned the portrait for any small differences between this ancestor and the living Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd males. There were a few: a rougher crenellation pattern on the forehead and a slightly less angular contour to the outer mandibles. But there was no doubting that the eyes were his; they were almost identical in shape and shade to his own and those of his father. They seemed to be studying him as closely as he was studying them.

“So you too, venerable ancestor Zukfel, are to this Gand a ruetsa’iiv and examiner . . . ?”

He lay there gazing on the tiny image for several more minutes, perhaps hours, until sleep overtook him.

* * *

Zuckuss awoke to the ruddy glimmers of dawn and the rapping of a claw on his door. A thrill ran through him as he jumped to his feet, smoothed his clothing, and threw on his outer robe: this no doubt was the Findsmaster appointed to him by the dean and the temple council, who would be his mentor and guide for the remainder of his apprenticeship. He almost hoped it was Okkfel, if only so he would have other opportunities to assert himself. Part of him imagined the bulky, irascible Findsmaster bowing his head in contrition, demoting himself to a lowly Taagu while expressing his sincere regret at having underestimated the son of Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.

“Please enter.”

The door opened to reveal the stooped form of Volokoss Ratokk, clad in full field gear with harness and armor.

“Greetings, Apprentice Findsman Zuckuss, in the name of the Sacred Visionary Mists,” he began. “And felicitations as well. Your ruetsavii-tí’kaa and the council of Findsmasters were most impressed with your performance on . . . Why are you standing there looking as though you have been hit with a stun bolt, young one?”

Zuckuss realized suddenly that he had forgotten to offer Volokoss any of the traditional gestures of greeting or deference, and he bowed his head to receive the senior Findsman’s blessing. “Apologies, Findsmaster Volokoss,” he replied in a murmur. “It was for . . . no good reason.”

“Yes, Volokoss was fairly certain of that,” said the elder Findsman with a good-natured click, waving a hand over Zuckuss’s head in blessing. “But for now, quickly, put on your field gear and come. You and Volokoss must go.”

Zuckuss obeyed, and only minutes later he and his master were sitting side by side in the cockpit of one of the temple’s airspeeders, swooping deftly above the colorful, swirling clouds that separated one pocket colony from another.

* * *

A little over an hour later, Zuckuss found himself in the center of a busy marketplace, clad in the field gear of an apprentice Findsman: heavy outer robes, a filg-leather supply belt, and light armor strapped around his shins and wrists. He was on the central market grounds of the pocket colony of N’xid. This was his first time there, but he knew from his studies that it was one of the smallest and poorest of Gand’s pocket colonies, with a particularly high proportion of nameless citizens. Indeed, even without the Ritual of Wayseeking he could tell that this marketplace was much smaller and less lavish than the great marketplace he remembered from his home colony of Rhaguin. Only a few rather dingy and faded guild banners dared twirl their way up into the foggy, silver-gray sky; the booths were small and modestly outfitted; and the citizens wore rough, simple clothing that was all of the same neutral-colored, undyed material—a sign of low self-reference status in certain colonies, as Zuckuss remembered from his readings. Occasionally he would see someone with a single colored scarf, sash, or shawl, which he knew must indicate a name, but the dark brown of his own field robe was the only other color that stood out at all.

Volokoss had left him just moments ago, and there was not a single other Findsman in sight. The Findsmaster had explained on the flight over that they were coming to N’xid on patrol duty—an assignment, he had hastened to mention, that was not typical for an apprentice of Zuckuss’s level, but one that the temple council felt he deserved in light of his exceptional abilities. Shortly after docking and disembarking, Volokoss had proceeded to give his student very specific instructions on how to carry out his patrol duty. First he was to acquaint himself with the layout of the southern half of the market grounds by performing a first-level Ritual of Wayseeking (which itself would take at least half an hour). Once that had been completed he would begin his patrol, keeping a close watch on the dealings and interactions among the citizenry but never intervening unless the direct safety of beings or property was openly threatened. Finally, in three hours, he was to rendezvous with his master at the main gate of the marketplace and give a full report. It all seemed straightforward enough: what disorder could possibly arise in such a backrocket colony and among such an undistinguished citizenry? Perhaps that was the very reason the council considered it suitable for a first patrol mission.

With these thoughts in his mind, Zuckuss stopped beside a fountain in the central market square and positioned himself for the Ritual of Wayseeking. Curious passers-by stared as he straightened his back and shoulders, then raised his hands upward before him with palms outward; he simply closed his eyes, shutting them out. The Ritual of Wayseeking was different from most of the other meditative disciplines he knew—not only because it could be performed standing up, but also because it involved sending out pulses of one’s own intuitive energy rather than receiving intuitive energy from the Mists. By sensing the combined reflections of those pulses off his physical surroundings, a Findsman could map those surroundings in his mind with a fair amount of accuracy. Of course, performing any meditative ritual in the midst of a busy marketplace was an added challenge, and he hoped that the white noise of the flowing water would aid his concentration.

It did, at least for a while. After a quarter of an hour, he had mapped out most of the southern half of the marketplace. He was just about to begin on the northern half when he was jolted from his meditation by a forceful kick to the shin, followed by the startled protestation:

“Gand beg Mystical Honor pardon! Gand thought Mystical Honor was statue!”

The rather shabby-looking greenish-eyed youngster responsible had scampered off in near-panic before Zuckuss could offer any words of reassurance, and he had to begin the ritual again.

When at last his mental map was complete, Zuckuss began his patrol. He walked slowly up and down the rows of booths, looking around him, returning the occasional nod or salute from the citizenry but never initiating such gestures himself—just as Volokoss had instructed him. So far there was not much for him to do in the way of keeping order. Both sellers and buyers were going about their business in a quiet and orderly fashion, with none of the complaining, arguing, or haggling that could occasionally be heard at the Rhaguin market.

Presently he came to the northeastern corner of the marketplace. It was by far the dingiest part of an already fairly dingy place. The booths here were shabby and run-down, and several were empty; the stones of the street were coated in grime. But there were many children about, some darting in and out of booths, some hiding, some chasing each other, some mock-fighting with sticks or toy weapons—all clearly engaged in the customary mock Hunts. One group, which had just apprehended its mock captive, approached Zuckuss to ask him for his official ratification of the capture and his blessing. Doing nothing to disabuse them of the mistaken notion that he was anything more than an apprentice, Zuckuss quickly surveyed the quarry (who was stuffing his mandibles with some kind of juicy, pulpy blue fruit), then held his hands above the children’s heads and murmured a few assorted words of blessing. The children ran off, seemingly satisfied; Zuckuss stood for a moment watching them, clicking contentedly to himself as he remembered his own mock Hunts long ago.

One child did not seem to be part of a mock Hunt: a girl, slight of build and with delicate features, who carried a large basket of fruit under her arm as she walked through the market. She was clad in the usual rough-hewn, neutral-colored tunic, with strands of purple foliage twined around her upper arms—no doubt a guild emblem of some kind, Zuckuss surmised, identifying her as a seller of produce. With her round golden eyes, she, too, seemed to be watching the mock-hunters. A passing citizen beckoned to her and wordlessly handed her a credit slip; in return she gave him an oblong red fruit from her basket.

Some of the other children seemed to have noticed her as well, for one of them—a tall boy with black eyes, probably a few years older than she—pointed to her and gestured to his group of friends to approach her. She turned away quickly as she saw them, but the black-eyed boy jumped in front of her, cutting off her steps. Then he spoke four mocking, drawn-out syllables:

“Vee-oo-RAAAHN-vee.”

The golden-eyed girl closed her eyes and lowered her head as a chorus of derisive clacks erupted from the boy and his companions. Zuckuss slipped into a nearby booth and pretended to survey the wares, keeping the cornermost facets of his eyes trained on the group of children. He did not know what the boy had said to the girl—some local childish insult, he guessed—but he had a feeling his presence might come in handy for peacekeeping purposes, especially since no parents or other chaperones seemed to be about.

The black-eyed boy spoke again, in sickly-sweet tones. “Won’t you let this Gand buy one of your blue togu?”

The girl held out her basket. The boy grabbed a globular purple-blue fruit from it and threw it forcefully to the ground near her feet. Moist aquamarine pulp splattered on the cobblestones. He and his companions clicked and jeered as the girl bent down to pick it up, then looked it over intently, feeling it and the oozing pulp with both hands.

Meanwhile, in the booth, Zuckuss fidgeted uneasily with a scoop in a large cloth sack of dried nutrient strips, wondering if he should intervene. But Volokoss’s instructions had been clear, and so far the only thing that had suffered physical harm was a togu . . . He looked about in case any of the children’s parents had appeared. But none had, and the nearby shopkeepers seemed to be taking no interest. To them it was apparently just some children’s game.

“So!” Both Zuckuss and the golden-eyed girl jumped at this sudden exclamation from the black-eyed boy. “Aren’t you going to tell this Gand’s fortune, like you promised?”

“Gand already did.” The girl’s response was timid and barely audible, but she was now looking the boy squarely in the eye.

“Well, has it happened yet?” The black-eyed boy leaned close to her, his mandibles splayed fully open. “No, it hasn’t. Perhaps the Sacred Visionary Mists saw fit to inform you that this Gand’s father”—he rapped on his chest with one claw—“is Semfod Sylonn, governor of N’xid, and he has never lost any money on any of his investments. Ever.”

“Not yet. But by sunset . . .” She gulped, as though close to sobs. “By sunset the market will crash. The Grenn-Mygra bubble will burst. And . . . and he will be without a single credit.”

“You’re making that up, you little liar!”

“No—Gand is not—”

“You are! You’re talking nonsense!”

“But you asked—”

“LIAR!” The black-eyed boy’s mandibles clattered with rage. He grabbed the girl by the collar of her tunic and gave her a violent shove backward into a large mud puddle. Her basket and all the fruit in it flew in all directions, scattering and splattering on the cobblestones. The boy’s friends rushed to stomp on any fruit that did not squash upon impact.

This was Zuckuss’s cue to act. He dropped the scoopful of nutrient strips—only some of which, to the shopkeeper’s horror, ended up back in the sack—and ran between the black-eyed boy and his victim.

“WHAT IN THE HOLY MADMAN’S NAME DO YOU MEAN BY SUCH BEHAVIOR?! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF! YOU—”

He stopped short. The dust and grime from the cobblestones seemed to be rising into the air around the girl, who was now sitting upright, apparently oblivious to the slimy, brown-green mud soiling her clothes, and fixing the boy in her fiery golden gaze. Higher and faster the dust swirled, glowing silver like the mist in the sky. The black-eyed boy and his friends backed ever so slightly away; Zuckuss’s intuition tingled as he took a cautious step to the side.

Then the girl struck the back of her hand full-force on the pavement. Just as she did, the swirling dusts gathered into a whirlwind that flew directly at the boy and his companions. They scattered in a volley of screams, oaths, and coughs.

Just as quickly as it had arisen, the whirlwind vanished. And the girl collapsed into the muddy water.

Zuckuss rushed to her side. She was exhausted but still conscious. “Are you all right, young one?” he asked, reaching his hand to her.

With some difficulty she rolled out of the puddle and onto one side, blinking her nictitating membranes. Then her eyes flashed open as she gave a sudden start.

“It’s . . . it’s you.”

“Have you seen Zuckuss before?” Zuckuss could not help but clack in puzzlement. “You speak as if you recognize him, but he has never been to N’xid before today.”

“Well . . .” She trailed off, turning her eyes away. “Gand could be wrong . . .”

“No matter. Take Zuckuss’s hand.”

She did so, and he helped her carefully to her feet. As she smoothed out her clothing and brushed off a few clumps of mud, he collected her basket and the damaged fruit from the ground. He could sense that she was watching him as he did so, that those bright golden eyes of hers were following his every move. Could she really have seen him before, somewhere, somehow? He had never before been to N’xid, and he could hardly imagine that any Gand child so young and so poor would ever have had the means or opportunity to go beyond her home colony. Perhaps she had simply confused him with someone else—but with whom?

And that strange little whirlwind of dust from the street—just what was it that she had done? Volokoss had not yet taught him anything like that . . .

As carefully and inconspicuously as he could, he tucked a credit slip from his inner pocket into the girl’s basket before returning it to her.

“And there. Zuckuss shall accompany you home.”

---

Spoiler: Author's notes

Overkreetles: see http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kreetle. My early beta Beedo introduced these to me, and we figured they or related creatures might exist on an insect-dominated world like Gand.

The togu is my own creation; the dried nutrient strips are my own creation riffing on an officially established Gand food item. For details, please see my fanon post on Gand foodstuffs.

The word ruetsa’iiv is my own singular of the official plural word ruetsavii.

The Ritual of Wayseeking is my own creation too, and should probably be added to my original Gand fanon post.

I originally named N'xid after Skid Row.

Finally, if Gamiel happens to be reading this, he will recognize where one character is using one of the Findsman techniques he came up with in the Fanon Thread. Though if he does, he will kindly keep it mum for now. I thank him for his kind and helpful PM correspondence on the subject.

 

Wow, what wonderful responses and reviews. I'm thrilled and humbled at the same time! Now, simply because there is SO MUCH HERE, I'm going to do this piecemeal: in this post I'll respond to the reviews posted by Kahara, Nyota's Heart, and earlybird-obi-wan. Then I'll need to devote at least one separate post to Ewok Poet 's amazingly thorough and astoundingly dissertative review.

So not to worry, everyone will be responded to, and then it'll be on to chapter 10.

And I am an exceedingly lucky skunk to have you as my beta. Just having an astute, careful reader like you go over these scribblings of mine before I present them to the public does so much for my writerly morale it's not even funny. Muchas gracias, danke schön, and todah rabbah.

Thank you all. I just really enjoy writing those kind of detailed descriptions of this 'n' that, to the point that I get carried away by them sometimes, and I am glad it's apparently not getting too tiresome. I think it's partly to do with the fact that I wish I could draw or paint some of these places and characters that I can see very vividly in my mind's eye, but since I can't draw worth shucks, I have to make do with the next best thing, which is drawing and painting with words.

In the case of things like the portrait of Zukfel and facial expressions and body language, though, it's also a way of emphasizing once again that the characters of the story are aliens. It's a good reminder for me, too: being human myself, I'm likely to slip back into human imagery and features from time to time if I'm not careful.

Thanks. I really wanted to be sure give some due time to the lower status bracket of Gand culture and life, especially since most of the Gands encountered in official literature are not members of that bracket, and to explore how they and those more elite Findsman castes view each other (you'll see more of that in the next chapter).

Oh, indeed, he will have some issues there. And much of it does stem from his ambivalence on the whole Uncanny One issue, which of course is right at the heart of his troubled relationship with his father. I don't suppose anyone here will be surprised if I say that that ambivalence is going to be a recurring theme in this story. Still, one point of a mission like this is to give him something completely different to take his mind off that at least temporarily, because it's a lot for a young person to have on his mind. And, as you see, it is a good way of inculcating humility, too (see below).

I'm glad you like him. With him I'm definitely going for a balance between no-nonsense and caring, which is something I personally like to see in teacher figures but is also something Zuckuss really needs at this point. And another thing he needs, of course, is a father figure who actually supports him and believes in him.

Incidentally, when Ewok Poet first introduced me to the Ewoks TV series, I was struck by how much the character of the shaman Logray reminded me of my mental image of Volokoss—right down to that charmingly harried mood he sometimes gets into.

Indeed, part of the point of sending him out to this remote, backrocket, poor colony is definitely to get himself outside the "comfort zone" of the somewhat rarefied Findsmen's world and introduce him to those other strata—and by doing so to test and build his character. I could see this being something that all Findsman apprentices get assigned to do at some point, not just Zuckuss (even though for him it's an especially apt lesson).

Thanks. I'm so glad it comes off effectively, especially since I don't know as much as I should about the full range of Jedi techniques and abilities, so I'm not always sure when I might be unwittingly overlapping or duplicating something there. It's of course understood that an apprentice like Zuckuss is definitely not going to know how everything works, but I do like the idea that maybe that's true for more experienced Findsmen too. It would certainly accord well with the ethos of simply submitting oneself humbly to the revelation of the Mists.

And of course the interesting thing about our hero is that it wasn't really all that long ago that he was in those children's shoes—he's still got the body of a near-adult, but the mind of a youth. Maybe that makes it extra bittersweet, even: both by virtue of his growth treatment and early apprenticeship, he's suddenly been catapulted into the role of the authority figure. And while he certainly feels uneasy about this, he really kind of relishes it at the same time (note his reaction to the children who ask for blessing).

As Ewok Poet observed, that whole scene really turned out to be very much the darker, grittier counterpart of the chapter 1 hunt scene—and I emphasize turned out, because other than the general description of the marketplace (which I did directly compare to the Rhaguin marketplace) I hadn't really planned it that way (the second green-eyed child also just worked out that way, too, but you're absolutely right!).

Thanks! This is very reassuring, because though she's a obviously showing some starchild-like (to use EP's term) characteristics too, I don't by any means want her to be invincible. For the idea of mystical powers being unleashed unexpectedly (and forbiddenly?) by emotional stress, I was partly inspired by Harry Potter's uncontrolled magic spells against his unsavory Aunt Marge in, I think it was, the third HP book.

Thank you! The most I can say about her at this point is basically "," but rest assured there will be more of her very soon.

More soon, but thanks again to all.