Chapter Three - THE SIMPLETON

I have always wanted to see Fedarn.

Anto had been proud of his birthplace, as if being born within the atmosphere of the mother planet had somehow imbued him with strength and power. He always walked with a straight back and an expanded chest – most of us could barely manage a crouch after the marches and equipment we were required to endure – and he was, indeed, a domineering presence. During my recuperation he had told me of the great marble and stonewalls of the many buildings. The places to walk, to see, the great markets and the streets to visit.

I dreamed of it, once, but all I could see were empty buildings which were slowly suffused in light from a blood red setting sun, and when I touched the walls they rippled like pools of dark water.

The sun is unbearable. I can hardly remember the cold of the battlefield but I would gladly trade a little of this sun for a little of that cloud. Maybe I have been away too long and my memories of the joy of being bathed in sunlight are clouded.

But that seems to be my reasoning, my excuse, for everything when I try to remember what it was like away from the worlds of the enemy. I cannot help my feelings. I cannot help but balance what happened to me during my time away with what I have seen and experienced with my time here, back in the civilised parts of the galaxy.

I came home, but this is not my home. I tried to escape the strife of the army but found only the strife of the citizen. I am on the capital of the Ki-Ki Sector, now, travelling slowly south in the back of a repulsorwagon that is surrounded by energy poles to prevent escape and topped by a thick metal roof. The lock and chains that seal the cage are made of steel alloy.

My travelling ‘companions’ are quiet and do not seem to want to talk, of which I am glad, but further down the road we join with another wagon line travelling from the east and several more slaves are placed in the cart with us. We slowly rock back and forth as we resume our long journey and I notice that the largest and most muscular of the group is steadily staring at me. I turn to meet that gaze.

He is thick-necked and tanned, but his face seems blank of emotion. As I hold his eyes I see that his face is blank of most things – he appears as a simpleton. I see a badly healed wound on his temple, white strips of which I think is bone. His hair does not grow there, and it is too long on his left-hand side. He is filthy. I start to turn away and then I notice a smile on his face. For all his simple, grimy appearance he has a full set of teeth.

   “Whappend to yarm?” he gurgles. His voice is light, like a child’s.

I ask him his question’s meaning. He seems to concentrate for many moments and slowly spells the words for me. “Wha... happened... to... arm?” and he points at my bandaged stump.

The other slaves look from him to me and watch expectantly. One Rodian even nudges another and smiles about something he is obviously aware of and I am not.

   “I was wounded,” I say simply and low in tone. I do not wish to continue this conversation.

   “Me-oo,” he says and points to the wound on his head. I nod and turn away.

The flat, open land rolls by slowly and dust from the repulsorwagons emitters rises and falls softly, leisurely.

I feel a kick on my foot and I turn to see the simpleton pointing at me again. “Wha name?” he asks. Spittle is running from his lolling tongue but he is unaware of it.

I do not tell him. I do not want him to know my name and I doubt whether he will remember it for very long.

   “No remumba?” he says, enticing a laugh from a man further down the wagon. “I don remumba my name.” His voice drops in volume and I have the impression he is sad. How could he feel such a thing? Did he even realise why he was sad? Not having any time for another damaged soul I shifted so that I was facing away from him.

The other slaves are still watching and I hear something whispered but I do not make out what it is. The whisper is answered by another and a loud, boisterous laugh bursts from the group at the far end. A soldier, poorly armoured and as young as his riddabeast, looks into the cart and frowns disapprovingly.

I look back at the laughing man and see a thin figure with a thick curly beard. He is looking at the simpleton and making his laughter deliberate. The simple man returns the laugh but he is obviously unaware of the joke.

   “The brain dead and the cripple,” he whispers in a too-loud voice and the simpleton’s laughter dwindles. “What price will they fetch on the market?” Two men he is with join his laughter and they look back down at us.

I am suddenly angry – not from the insult but from the fact that I have been associated with this huge man – and I then feel guilty for having such thoughts about this unfortunate individual who wipes at his spit ineffectively as he becomes self-conscious. In the army the soldier was required to care for his wounded comrades, no matter the effect of the wound. As Anto did for me.

   “Would you like a name?” I say to him suddenly, my words immediately dowsing the men’s mirth. The simpleton looks at me and nods vigorously.

   “It’s best not to talk to Trunk,” the curly-bearded man says, as the simpleton is about to answer. “Best not to befriend him. He forgets things quickly.”

   “Why is such a man a slave?” I ask.

   “Arms like that of tree trunks and a physique like that of a Bantha. He’s a good labourer. What of it, cripple?”

I do not like the man’s tone but I am also confused by his adversarial nature. As thin as he is, and I have no doubt the simpleton could snap him in two, he seems to have a strong will. He glares at me. Perhaps this is why he is a slave. Perhaps he offended the wrong person, his nature was too unacceptable, or perhaps he was a prisoner. I know that those not pleased with their lot in life sometimes resort to criminal acts to try and give their existence some meaning.

    “It does not seem right,” I answer and let the subject drop. The thin man shrugs and appears disinterested.

The simpleton looks at me, maybe awaiting the name I mentioned, but I look away. Downcast, he returns to wiping his mouth.

The days pass. We are allowed to leave the repulsorwagon at certain times, to relieve ourselves and eat and wash, but we are always connected to the vehicle by long chains at our ankles. The chain links are small but strong enough to hold us.

Not that I would try to escape. Where would I go? Where could I go? The money I had taken from the slaver to hand to my sister was my vow of obedience to him. It would have been dishonourable to escape.

Early one morning we enter the grounds of a huge house. At first, I think we have reached the forward provinces of Fedarn but the thin bearded man laughs at me. “We are barely within the lands of the mother planet,” he says between exaggerated guffaws. “This is hardly the most Fedarn offers, cripple.”

High walls topped with spikes surround the house, and several guards, again in the lack-lustre armour and carrying simple blasters and de-activated energy shields, wander the grounds. The main gates slide open and inside I see huge energy fences, which seem to surround compounds. Within these compounds I can see men, tussling and fighting with each other and strange contraptions. Dust gives the scene a blurred tinge that makes me squint to discern details.

A resplendent man, dressed in blue-edged white and accompanied by three surly-looking Barabel guards, walks stiffly to the lead repulsorwagon where I know Maru to be.

   “Maru!” he calls. “Welcome to my house. I hope your journey was a safe one.”

   “Monima, my dear friend,” says my owner, climbing slowly down from the vehicle, his size giving it a comic appearance and grasping the man’s wrist. “A trouble-free road.”

   “So what do you have for me, Maru? The pickings have not been good this year.”

Both men walk to our speeder and as they approach the man called Monima frowns. He spends several moments inspecting us and, as I watch, he turns to Maru with raised eyebrows.

What this man was hoping to find I did not know. But if my reasoning was correct, and the unusually well secured walls and the cages of battling men verified that, then this man was a trainer. His disgust with us was probably because he did not think us worthy of fighter training.

   “Please, Maru, I wanted men, not stringy womp rats. How am I to present these to the arena?”

Maru feigns shock and sweeps his arm to us in a grandiose gesture. “Most gracious Monima, can you not see the strength in these men? They look thin and weak to you now, but they are from Udjein Major! They can fight like krayt dragons and swing weapons like the best Imperial Guard that the throne can supply.”

   “All I see are weaklings, a cripple and a simpleton. I will pay you half-normal price for the lot. But not the cripple. And definitely not the simpleton.”

   “For his lack in brains he more than makes up for it with his strength! Look at those arms, those muscles. Why, I doubt even you could encircle his arm with both your hands!” Maru was playing up to his buyer.

Still, it disturbs me to be talked of in such a fashion. I remember being assailed by a silk merchant just outside my home who talked to me in such a way. He wanted to sell me mere items. I knew what I had done, what my future was, when I allowed myself to be bought but I did not think I would feel this way. Perhaps the long journey had allowed me time to reflect. Of one thing I was certain.

I was now a mere item. My actual worth, the worth I had cast upon myself for my actions, had now taken actual form. I was less than nothing.

   “And the cripple?” Monima was saying. He had obviously dropped his friendly buyer visage and had reverted to what was probably his natural demeanour. “What do I do with him? He may serve as an amusement for his first fight but he’s hardly worth me training to fight so that he can be killed in his first combat. I’m not wasting money on a cybernetic replacement, or even the simplest appendage. No, Maru. Half for the lot minus the cripple and the simpleton.”

   “Four-fifths.”

   “Three-fifths.”

   “Three-quarters.”

   “Done.”

I jump at the sound of slapping flesh as the two men agree on the price. One by one the men are taken from the cart and placed in leg binders. As the bearded man passes me he gives me a scathing glance and whispers, “I wish I had one arm.”

It is then I understand his apparent dislike of me. He must have known he was being taken to a trainer and, no matter what he tried to do to lessen his appearance, the chances were he was going to be chosen to be trained as a fighter.

I have no sympathy for him, for it is obvious he was a criminal or an enemy of Ki-Ki so any fate he fears is well deserved, but, things considered, I am also confused at his lack of enthusiasm. Was arena fighter combat not a more honourable way to die than the rope or block? What delights to see the pulsating crowd, to hear their cries of joy and appreciation as he entertains and thrills them!

The simpleton appears saddened at the departure of the others in the wagon. When I am instructed to leave the vehicle, for it appears we are to stay here at the house a while, the big man leans forward, crying, “Don go! Don go!” It is all I can do to calm him down, and I pat his damp hands and allow him a comforting smile.

   “Your new friend is going no-where, Trunk,” Maru says as he walks around the cart to face us. “It appears I’m stuck with you both until I reach the capital city. I knew it would be a mistake to buy you, cripple. And this one,” he flailed a hand at the simpleton with impatience, “the man I bought you from will suffer if I ever see him again!”

It must have appeared strange, me and the simpleton standing together with his huge frame overshadowing mine, for many of the guards look on and smile. I feel as the cockon at the bottom of the bowl, discoloured and cast out as the better morsels are taken and consumed.

   “What am I to do with you both?” says the slaver as he walks away, another dark-skinned slave running alongside him with a tall pole topped with a shade. The guards take us both and lead us into a side entrance of the house. We can nought but shuffle in our newly fitted leg binders.

We are placed in a cell with a single window and a small gutter that runs through it for our own relief. It is obviously the latter stages of the drain – every now and then something with the stench of bodily waste drifts down the shallow flow – but it has simple straw beds and plenty of space. The simpleton stands as if awaiting instructions. I motion to either of the beds, allowing him to choose his own place in the cell, and he seems confused. After a few moments I choose the bed closest to the window and he takes the other one, obviously pleased that the need to make a decision had been taken from him.

He sits the same way as he did in the repulsorwagon, legs crossed and hands in his lap, and he begins to stare away at nothing. Knowing I will not get a conversation from him I let myself stretch out on the bed and try to make myself comfortable. What I would not have promised for some fresh water. I consider washing in the gutter but decide against it.

The simpleton appears to be frowning, I notice a while later, and as I watch tears begin to roll down his face. I sit up and look at him. “Are you well?” I ask with as much concern as I can manage.

He does not look at me. “No name,” he says with a whisper. I am expecting him to start fully weeping, and I do not know what I would do if he did, so I stay quiet. As quickly as the moment arrives it passes, and he looks at me with a smile. “Fernd?” he asks.

The sound of riddabeasts takes my attention, for I could not understand his word, and I stand on my toes to see out of the small window.

Soldiers are entering the courtyard of the house. It is a cohort of men, the armour and weapons they bear are coated with thick dust from the road. At the head is a tall man, his bright Commander’s helm plumed with red, his riddabeast black as pitch. His officers are spreading out, one running to the house’s main door and the others managing the men. I watch as the Commander climbs from his riddabeast and I marvel at the soldier’s splendour. They were not like the men at the walls of the house, whose armour and weapons were as old and gnarled as their skin, but splendid and proud.

The Commander is shouting orders and then allows his officers to take charge, He pats at the dust on his clothes and turns as the owner of the house, the trainer Monima, runs to greet him.

It is Anto. The Commander is Anto. His scarred cheek stands prominently and his stance appears even prouder than before. In panic I drop from the window and out of sight.

He cannot see me! He wished me luck and a safe future as we parted company on the road many weeks ago and made me promise to not allow my grief or my wounds hinder my life. What have I done but break my vow to him! What would he say, seeing me in the grey cloth of a slave?

My eyes are cast upwards and I glare at the Gods, knowing that my hatred of them has suddenly increased. What am I to do to find peace? Had I not already paid the ultimate price for my cowardice, for my lack of honour, for the abandonment of my sister?

   “Fernd?” the simpleton asks again.

It takes me a while to realise what he is trying to say but as I watch his face, which changes from a smile to a worried frown, I understand his concern and smile back. “Yes, I am your friend.”

What else was I to say? I had placed myself in such a position that no one would befriend me easily but here, in this cell, was a man whose innocence was that of a child and whose own life was as filled with confusion and pain as my own. I felt a strange kind of affinity at that moment, I felt as though maybe this was another soul whom I could turn to without fear of being hurt or betrayed.

But would I, as I wallow in my own agony, betray him?

The smile returns and he goes back to his staring.

   “Fernd,” he whispers, over and over. “Fernd.”