The Peculiar Dreams of Goah Galletti2002 short story by
Jonathan Hicks Eight years after Episode
IV – A New Hope The First Night The man in black leaned out of his window and
stared as the weather beat against his dwelling. He did not mind the force of
nature on his face or blowing into his room. “Rain
falls, wind blows,” he murmured. The Bantha leaning against the lamp post in the
street heard the murmur and turned slowly, smiling as only her huge, hair
covered face could. She crossed her arms and resumed her leaning. “A
conversation?” the Bantha rumbled, her deep resonant voice soft, yet
strangely commanding. The man regarded the four metre high beast and
watched as she made herself comfortable. Her cloven hooves scratched the
tarmac and the lamppost leaned dangerously. “So the
Coruscant Department of Xeno-ecology said ‘survival of the strongest’ and
everyone cheered,” he said.
“Meaning?” prompted the Bantha. The man sighed heavily and swung his legs out of
the window. “At last, explanations for the natural order of things. An
explanation for evolution, as to why things change to adapt to circumstance
and environment. These things take a long time. Species on worlds across the
Known Galaxy spend thousands, millions of years changing and adapting.” “If this is the content of your dreams,” the Bantha said with a chuckle, “the real life must be extremely boring for you. I cannot believe you have willed me into being to talk theory. After all,” she spread her arms to denote her presence, “it doesn’t explain me.” The man looked at her and smiled, the rain soaking his clothes, the wind blowing his long coat into wild snaps of billowing cloth. “I have but one lifetime,” he whispered, then his voice grew in volume as he spoke. “Maybe I’m asking too much change to my life before it’s all over. So I ask myself several questions in order to ascertain my situation. Thing is, I don’t know what the questions are. It’s difficult for me to stare at myself and ask ‘what is wrong?’ It’s a difficult question to answer when the enquirer is your own soul. It’s a difficult question for your soul to ask, because your brain always answers ‘what, you think there’s something wrong with me? You just kill people!’ and then shuts up.” “Let me
be your soul,” the Bantha whispered, although the sound was still tinged with
volume and resonance. “I’ll ask your questions.” “So, the
question remains. What is wrong? What has happened recently for me to get so
down, to feel like I’ve hit a low point but I’m too afraid of something to
admit it. I can’t ask the question. I can’t talk about it. If I can’t talk
about it, I’m not admitting there’s something wrong. If I’m not admitting
there’s something wrong, then I’ll never figure it out. So I’ll never ask the
question. Repeat several times and add a healthy dose of anguish.” The Bantha shifted her position and scratched her
horned head. “So, let’s try to understand the feeling,” she said, feeling
somewhat uncomfortable. The man cocked his head in thought. “Well, lets
tell it as it is. The feeling is, like there’s a big hole in the stomach,
like there’s something missing. There are no voices in my dwelling or on my
starship. Just steady breathing and the faint hum of the deckplates that my
soul has been sold to. The days finishe by cleaning weapon, treating wunds,
switching off the lights at night and crawling into a cold bed, having plenty
of room to lay about in. Stretching and turning over and flinging arms wide;
King of the bed. Except, a King with no subjects. It takes a long time to
warm up in a bed when you’re alone. In fact, there’s still quivers as sleep
comes, so at waking there’s a feeling like sleeping in a draught. Noone pulls
the covers off. Noone elbows in their sleep. There’s noone to watch slumber,
the steady rise and fall of the chest, the slight quiver in the lips as their
dreams bring them visions of what they love. There’s nothing to enfold arms
about and whisper soothings to as the nightmares come. There’s not even any
dreams anymore. It’s as if the twilight between sleeping and waking is a
no-go area, as if the mind is no longer allowed to trespass in the fields
where loving minds go. Separation.” “That,”
the Bantha interrupted, “is loneliness. You have been alone for years. It is
expected. You have other things.” “There’s
still my work, travelling planet to planet and popping blaster bolts in
people,” the man said with a nod of agreement. “But that is not enough,
obviously. What is missing? Why do these feelings come? Why is there
loneliness?” The Bantha was unsure as to whether she should pose so many
questions at once as the man was obviously becoming agitated. “Why the
loneliness?” The man whispered in thought. Then he snapped his fingers as if
they were talking of everyday things and pointed his finger at her. “Simple
answer to that one, soul. Thanks for asking. There’s loneliness because I’m
afraid. I’m afraid of expressing true feeling. True feeling means leaving a
soul exposed to bruising, and I bruise easy. I feel as though love is not a
toy or a word to be used lightly. Love is one of the most powerful words in
the galaxy. Forget a word such as blaster, proton torpedo, such sentences as
planet shattering space stations. Love is the word, the one true word, which
can build and destroy worlds. Unfortunately, in my own experience, the word
has been used to collapse my world, without it even being uttered.” The Bantha sighed and allowed a pause, musing over
her next question, but she thought it best to get to the crux of the matter.
She was not sure how long she had whilst the man slept. “What harm has it
done?” “What
harm? Being told that you’re loved is great. Being told that if you change
your hair, your clothes and your attitude, you’d be loved without question. Please dress me as you please. By the way,
you don’t mind if we’re together for a few years and then I ask the question
‘who am I?’, do you?” With another shift of position the Bantha stood to
her full height and interjected her own thoughts – if the man was allowed to
continue this way he would do nought but talk bitterly about his past. “You
don’t think you’re looking for too much too soon, do you?” “I
probably am,” the man shrugged and looked down at his swinging feet as they
dangled from the window. “It’s not that I need to be loved, it’s that I need to love. I need to reach out a
comforting hand, I need to encircle someone with my arms and hold them so
close that my heart bursts open. Strange, that. You’d think that someone
whose been on their own for so long would want to be loved, to be held, to
talk with someone whose own soul has similar questions. But that’s not the
situation with me. I feel as though I’m so full I need to share. I want to be
the one to brush the hair from the eyes, to smile at, to dry tears and to
cover from the rain. I have so much to give and I need very little. I’m an
emotional power ‘droid; give me a top up and I can go for weeks without the
need for any more.” “Don’t
you think that’s a bit strange? After all, isn’t the point that you just
don’t want to be alone?” As soon as she said the words the Bantha regretted
them; trying to simply brush away his feelings might make him withdraw into
introspection.
“Careful, soul. You’re getting a little cocky now,” the man murmured.
“That’s not the point at all. If that was the point, I’d be out grabbing
women left right and centre, but I’m not. I’m not talking about physical
loneliness; I’m talking about emotional loneliness. I’m not talking about
having someone to listen to me; I’m talking about shared minds and bodies.
I’m talking about…” Even the Bantha was taking aback by the sudden
outburst that followed. The man leaped from the windowsill but hovered in the
air in front of her face and his arms waved wildly as he shouted. “I don’t
know what I’m talking about! Do I think that dreaming spilling my soul
to an imaginary Bantha is going to solve my problem? The unending hum of the
blaster is my friend, the capping of the enemy in my answer. Why am I trying
to bring up feelings I wasn’t meant to have? Am I trying to structure my
emotion so that it is identifiable, trying to escape the reality of my
feelings by making myself believe I am simply using experience to convey
context? Freck that. I can talk, I
have the power of conversation. I was born with vocal cords, not a blaster in
my hand. Why can’t I express myself the way I wish? Why can’t I say what I
mean? Am I embarrassed? Am I scared that I will bore the listener, or upset
them, or generally give them the ‘he’ll sort it out’ attitude? Yes! I am! I
am all these things. I cannot articulate my feelings into sounds that
accurately convey my meaning. I have to rely on my passion, my passion for
killing, to get across my heart. So, what does that mean? That when I do meet
someone I’ll have to shoot them whenever she wants to talk? So once again I
have managed to avoid the questions. I avoid them with voice because I am
afraid. I avoid them in dreams because I am afraid. I avoid the whole
situation and try to substitute my feelings with actions because I am afraid.
So I sit here, I sleep and I shrug. What the hell; something will come up
soon.” The Bantha opened her mouth to answer but her
corporealism began to undo. Slowly she faded and the man drifted back in
through the open window. The man looked outside as he slipped into his bed.
“Yeah, right. The only certainty is what’s happening outside my window at the
moment.” He woke. The bed was cold. The weather was bad. He looked through the glass and sighed. “Rain
falls, wind blows,” he whispered. The Second Night It sounded like someone was scraping a brick along
the glass, but the man knew that it was a fingernail. “Go
away.” The sound persisted. The grinding caused him to
grit his teeth, ball his hands into fists, pull the pillow over his head and
try to stuff the ends into his ears. “Freck off!” “It’s
time to talk,” the Bantha said, her voice soft yet incredibly commanding,
like the stern tone of an angry mother. “I’m
trying to sleep,” the man said. “Which is exactly why we need to talk,” the Bantha said, her voice increasing in volume, her tone betraying her patience. With a growl of resignation and a violent flinging
back of his covers, the man approached the window and threw back the
shutters, throwing open the window and glaring at the Bantha’s features. “What?” The Bantha looked back over her shoulder and then
back at the man. “What have you done?” The man looked past the Bantha and looked at the
world he was on, his face never changing, his attitude never sliding. He
gazed at the burning buildings of the planet, the dark smoke that curled from
the ruined constructs, the glow in the horizon that denoted everything as far
as the eye could perceive was destroyed. “So?”
the man growled. “You’ve
destroyed the galaxy,” the Bantha said sadly, watching the supporting wall of
a building collapse, bringing down what was left of the charred roof and half
of a neighbouring construct. “The
galaxy can freck off to hell,” the
man snapped, heading back to his bed. “I’m trying to get some sleep.” “And you
think destroying the galaxy will help you to sleep?” the Bantha said
mockingly. “What, in your quest to get some shuteye, you obliterated
existence?” “What
has that frecking galaxy ever done
for me, eh?” the man snarled. “It took me into its reality, wrapped me up in
its warm embrace, and tried to smother me. I feel like I’ve been masticated
on for an hour and then allowed to dribble out the corner of it’s mouth.” The Bantha’s eyebrows - at least, the huge hairy
growths that passed for her eyebrows – raised in surprise. “What
have you got against the galaxy?” she enquired. She had his attention, now,
and she didn’t want to let it go. “It’s a
hole!” the man shouted as he fell onto his bed. “It’s a great big cluster of
contradiction and false hope. It’s a huge mess of expectation followed by
crushing rejection. What hope have I out there?” “You
have a stable job, a ship of your own, a steady income and food. You have
plenty of hope.” “Crap,”
the man spat out. “I have all those things and they don’t mean nothing. It
still doesn’t help me get a good night’s sleep.” “Is that
what all this is about?” the Bantha sat with her back against the wall, her
head almost level with the second storey window. “You’re just tired and
irritable?” “Yes!
It’s that galaxy that frecked me
over…” “No, it
isn’t.” The man was taken aback. “What?” The Bantha turned her head as she heard the man
walk back to the window, staring at her with an incredulous gaze. She let her
smile slip as she faced him and sighed heavily, her exhale blowing back his
long coat and hair. “The
world hasn’t ‘frecked’ you, as you so politely put it.
You’re just angry because there is a lot in the galaxy and you haven’t got
it. You’re jealous.” “I don’t
want the galaxy…” “But
there’s something in the galaxy you want.” “Will
you stop interrupting me, you…?” “What is
it? What does the galaxy have that you want?” The man gripped the windowsill so strongly his
hands threatened to rip the metal asunder, but carefully and methodically he
relaxed, controlled his breathing and closed his eyes. When he opened them
again there were tears in them. “Why
can’t I get her out of my mind?” he whispered. “It’s
not her you want,” the Bantha said, watching the collapsed buildings slowly
start to reassemble. “I don’t
understand.” A fallen chimneystack hovered mid-rebuilding as
his uncertainty stopped the re-creation of the planet. “She’s a
symbol, not a need,” the Bantha said. “She is a focal point, an image you
have burnt into your mind to create a marker, a level by which you can
measure your passions, wants and needs. You’re using her as a figure, nothing
more, to create an elaborate fantasy in which you live out the physical
actions and emotions you crave. You wonder how you’ll react in certain
situations, so you create the location, the tone and the situation in your
head and you give yourself and this woman parts to play. The story begins and
you play the scene as you think it would happen, as long as this woman plays
her part well and conforms to your wishes and desires, says the right things
so that your carefully prepared words will ring with truth and meaning, and
acts and moves according to your desires. It’s not the woman you desire, it’s
the moment you and she exist in.” The world continued to re-build. “What
does it mean?” “It’s means perhaps two things. One, you need that contact for real, but you are afraid of that reality because nature dictates that things will not always go as you want them to. You can allow for words and actions in your carefully designed fantasy, the fantasy that exists within the rules and regulations of your own wishes. The problem is that the real world, the world that you want to go to hell, doesn’t play by those rules. And you don’t like to lose.” “And second?” The Bantha shrugged. “The second is that you’re crazy.” The man laughed wholeheartedly as the fires ceased to burn and the sky cleared of the thick black smoke that engulfed it. Carpets and furniture begain to re-knit themselves in the windows of the buildings opposite. “So, what does that leave us with?” the Bantha continued as the man’s laughter died. He sat with his back to the same wall, the window just above his head. “This leaves us with the fact that instead of facing the galaxy and grappling with the reality of it all, you much prefer to play things safe and create these worlds inside your head. The problem is, these thoughts and fears have spilled into your dreams and, because they are so very important to you, they ring of truth. Dreams have a tendency to linger in the mind when you wake and these dreams are vivid. Most images of dreams fade over time but these dreams are the mirror of your emotion and the reflection continues to shine at you. The thing that sticks in your mind is both the emotions of the moment and the figure you have created to exist in those moments – this woman. I’m not saying you have created a fantasy to hide in, but what you have done is create a fantasy that you wish to see real, and hope that it will prepare you for the inevitable, when you do face these situations in actual, corporeal existence. Those moments you cherish – it’s all the stuff in between those moments you are afraid of. You know, uncomfortable silences, wondering what she’s doing when she’s not in your company, wondering what her true feelings for you are. Your dreams? Those are the moments you crave. These are clear and concise. The rest is hidden in a murky mist of half-truths and ponderings.” The man rubbed his eyes with vigour. “I’m a killer, but I’m a coward.” With a nod the Bantha allowed his words to be truthful to him before she said, “Yes, you are. You’re afraid of the galaxy. You’re afraid of the reality of the whole thing. You can exist in a world of non-committal and everyday situations, walk the streets and shoot people and all that kind of stuff, but emotional involvement? Ooh, it scares you. It really scares you.” “I’m a lunatic,” the man said as tears streamed down his face. “The worse kind of lunatic,” the Bantha said, feeling the tears create tracks of silver down his cheeks. “You’re the kind of lunatic who knows exactly what the problem is and yet feels compelled to do nothing about it because the outcome of his own decisions scares him most of all. You shouldn’t be afraid of who you are or what you say or what you do.” “Why?” the man sniffed and wiped his cheeks. The Bantha shrugged. “Because it’s just you.” The galaxy was rebuilt, and the planet now breathed with life outside the man’s window. “Is she real?” the Bantha asked. “Who?” “This woman,” the Bantha prompted. “God, yes,” the man said with a knowing smile. “God, she’s real. But unreachable.” “Another aspect of your fear,” the Bantha said. “If you reach in your mind for what you know you cannot have, then there is no danger of being bruised in reality.” The man sighed again and gathered his composure. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Just one more thing,” the Bantha said. She stood to her full height and peered in through the window at the man who stood and stared at her inquiringly. “Of all the things in the galaxy you have created in your mind, why have you chosen me as a point of reference?” “What do you mean?” “Why me? Why am I a huge female Bantha?” There were a few moments as the man pondered the question in his dream and in reality, and he shrugged. “Because you’re as far from my reality as I can get, which means there are no judgemental sides to your personality. You’re not the same gender so I do not feel as though I am being looked down upon by a peer. You’re as far from a real being as I can get without travelling to another world, so your views are objective and driven by reason and contemplation, not experience or what I perceive to be conflicting goals. You’re perfect for me when I’m trying to sort out my brain when sleeping.” “But I’m a four metre Bantha,” the Bantha said with a downturned face. “Look back and see what you’ve just said, the words you used. You’re beautiful.” The Bantha smiled sardonically. “Go to bed,” she said with a nod of her huge, beautiful head.
The Peculiar Dreams of Goah Galletti2002 short story by
Jonathan Hicks Eight years after Episode
IV – A New Hope Histories – Detailing the tortured mind
and psyche of the cloned assassin Goah
Galletti, prior to the fall of
ganglord Glann Cipple and Galletti’s own suicide. Using the image of a Bantha to
work through his problems, we see the inner workings of the mind of a killer
and assassin, and a twisted mind it is.
Written by Jonathan Hicks,
this is another layer to the intricate tapestry that makes up the life of
Goah Galletti.
Cast of Characters Goah Galletti The Bantha |