Naji Asiim
The Teacher
Drips of fat sizzle in the coals as they fall from his mighty jaw. The firelight casts his frame in grotesque shadow against the pitch dark desert floor. On the horizon, a mountain shoots molten rock into the air. The five moons are dissolved into the rising plume. One, like him, approaches from the camp where others gather.
"Mudak. We're ready."
With dawn awakens machinations of darkness. Fire spouts from the belly of the world.
Kowahle, a town in the great southern expanses of the planet Sriluur.
The first thing he does is wipe away the sand that's gathered on the windowsill. It falls, like dust, to the stone floor. Naji's room is a purgatorial mess in the pervasive grey dawn. Books are scattered carelessly on the ground, dirty clothes pile in the corners. A fading photograph is framed on the bedside table of two Weequay, embraced and smiling. Naji can look for only a moment.
His shirt sits folded in a drawer next to a black pistol. It is heavy and the barrel tastes of salt, but he leaves it behind. He buttons his shirt in the silent house. She stands in the next room, staring wordlessly at an empty crib. Her body is thin and frail.
"Tas," he says from the doorway. "I'm off for the morning. I'll see you for lunch." The ghoulish figure speaks not, moves not. She just stands there like a specter among the dusty toys, the vacant crib, and the gently spinning mobile of stars and moons. Naji steps off without a goodbye.
~
The people rise with the morning heat, stacking linens into piled sheets, baking bread that's nearly done, whispers of wars that cannot be won, the air hangs heavy with foreign spices, junkers hammering on their devices, market stalls along the streets, butchers curing assorted meats, a blind musician plays the bass viol, familiar sounds haunt Naji's soul, sewage and shite in the gutter festers, madmen raving along like jesters, smugglers and pirates and outlaws and cheats, gathered at Time's End for their drinks, among the craters of this desolate land, Kowahle- a city built in the sand.
~
The old woman is a fixture of the town. Her wrinkled face masks two sad eyes that speak of her many years on this barren world; the heartache, the toil, the loss of her family to slavers and bandits. There is a small spark that hints at the occasional triumph, and that makes it all the more tragic.
Passersby drop coins into her outstretched hand. "Morning, mother", they say. Naji too pays his fare to the haggard matron of the sands. "Storms a-coming," she croaks.
An endless ring of desert stretches around the town. It is busy, but small. Only three thousand men, women, and children inhabit it. There is money to be made if one has the right skills. Caravans of water, copper ore, food, and supplies come in from the desert and from the skies, touching down on the spaceport around which the market is set.
Shady traders speak with fear of the Hutts and their gangs operating in the badlands, of how every maneuver in the town is done so with their blessings. None complain. To do so would be to invite death and anarchy.
The roaring morning crowds mask the first screams, but the sound of blaster fire is undeniable. Bolts of red streak into air and the panic begins. Smoke rises in another corner of the town. Naji works through the riotous crowd to try and see what is happening. Someone screams "Houks!" and the truth becomes apparent - slavers are raiding the town.
Panic overcomes him. Naji races through the crowd, using his heavy frame to knock away the smaller bystanders, but he trips and falls all the same. Around him, the crowd is crushing, but through their legs he can see a wounded man crawling along the ground. There is no time. Naji picks himself up and carries on.
A fire burns outside the school. Hysterical parents cry out as Houk slavers, decorated barbarically with bones and metal, bind children with chains and lead them into the backs of awaiting speeders. Armed with rifles and spears, they hold back the crowd. One keeps watch on a nearby rooftop.
Naji finds a break in the crowd and runs for the school, but a Houk with bones piercing his oily face holds him back. "Please," says Naji with great fear. "Those are my students. I teach here, I teach kids, and that's them. You can't- you can't take them. They're not slaves. They're just kids."
The Houk smirks. "Hutts pay for these school and these kids, but you people ain't payed the Hutts. These kids is property now."
"I don't know anything about that," says Naji. His face cracks with desperation. All the parents are silently watching him plead. "The kids don't pay anything, it's the council. Talk to them."
"We done talking. Go home 'fore you get hurt," says the guard.
"Not without those kids."
"What'd you say, mag?"
It occurs to Naji, in this moment, that he would rather be dead than live with letting his students be taken away. Perhaps, he considers, there is a reason he never pulled that trigger on himself on the many occasions he would have liked to. He decides to tap into a power he does not yet totally understand, one that has followed him his whole life, one called the Force.
"I said, 'not without those kids', mag."
The Houk steps forward to attack him, but Naji raises his hand and summons every bit of strength he can muster. With the Force, he knocks the Houk to the ground, stunning everyone in attendance.
"Now," he says. "Those kids."
The effect is lost. From on the rooftop, the sniper shoots at Naji's feet and elicits a cry from the crowd. Naji raises his hands. It's over, he thinks. They've called my bluff.
The downed Houk, enraged, gets to his feet. "You're dead, now, mag. You and the kids." The last thing he sees is the stock of the rifle cracking against his skull.
All is black.
~ ~ ~
The blurry world returns to him bit by bit. Naji can feel the dried blood on his skull and the blistering pain it brings him.
Sound. The whimpering of children. A roaring engine. Then, sight. His cage is loaded into the back of a moving speeder gliding across the desert at twilight. He's been shackled, but so have they, the six- no, seven children in the cage with him. They look with wide, terrified eyes at their wounded teacher for help, but he can offer little, and they weep gently together.
Later, they are awakened again by ash that falls like snow. The prisoners rise and grip the bars, their gaze fixed on the fiery volcano and the lighted camp at its base. No moons, no stars.
review, but the inside of that stuffy Weequay's scrap shop was the Mirror
