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You are here: A N O T H E R S K Y › Issue 6 › Stories

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The Comfort of Strangers >>

Hunting

A-Hunting We Will Go By A.G. Steyn

Rummaging through the few belongings that survived the Alderaan disaster because I happened to have them with me on my mission preceding the blow-up, I come upon a small Vision Box containing assorted holo-stills of my home, my parents, my life on Alderaan. Luke, sitting beside me (and occasionally bouncing happily) on my bunk, peeks over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of the images.

"Who's that?"

He points at a scrawny figure in an oversized uniform standing in front of some building.

"Oh, that? That's uncle Mott. He was Moff of the Alderaanian National Civil Security Department. The chief of the chiefs of police, so to speak. Impressive looking guy, wasn't he?"

"Yeah - just like Lord Vader. One glance at him makes your blood run cold."

We both chuckle at the expense of poor ole uncle Mott, may the Force rest his soul.

Another holo. Luke grins.

"Is that you?"

"Although I hate to admit it: yes."

The holo shows me - knee-high to a Jawa - in a white babydoll outfit with tiny pink flowers printed all over it. I must have been about 2 at the time. My hair was braided into two short, thin Twi'lek tails held together at their ends by huge pink bows.

"Cute. Too bad I don't have any pix of myself. I had - but they all burned when the Imps raided our farm."

A photo of Bail Organa, my dad, follows. He wears an elaborate uniform and I take it from this that the holo was taken sometime during the Clone Wars. Then, a photo that shows a thin,, very aristocratic man with a clean-shaven face and brown hair. He is wearing the uniform of a General of the Old Republic but, aside from the government issue blaster also a lightsaber. Luke's eyes bulge and nearly leave their sockets.

"Who in all the galaxy is THAT?"

"Would you believe Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

That gives the little blonde pause. I look at him, just to make sure that he's still alive. It did get awfully quiet in here all of a sudden.

"B-Ben? Ben Kenobi?"

"Yes, your Ben. As you see, even he was once a young man. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Another picture of Ben follows. He's wearing a long brown-and-tan robe and is having a cconversation with two other men, both in robes, too. One is a short, red-faced man of nondescript looks; the other one an exceptionally tall individual with broad shoulders, bulging muscles barely concealed by the rough tunic, a broad smile and dark, almost shoulder length hair.

"Who are those guys? Do you know their names? They look Jedi, too."

"No - I think the short one on Ben's right could be General Malkeer, but I could be mistaken. That was before my time, Luke. The other one I don't know. From his size I'd say General Bantha. Looks like he needs a Star Destroyer just for himself to get around.Certainly not the kind of man a girl can hide in her wardrobe when her parents come home sooner than expected."

"Ben told me that he once had an apprentice named Darth Vader. From the size of that guy, that could be him before he went to the Sith."

"You have got a point there, Luke. This could be him. That would also explain why neither Ben nor my dad wanted to remember this man's name when I asked them his identity. If that is really Vader, then he was not exactly unpleasant to look at. Hey, look. He has a cleft chin,like you."

"Sure. That and his size make him a prime suspect in the 'Who was Luke Skywalker's old man' mystery."

We both fall over backwards onto the mattress and spend the next 10 minutes trying to catch our breath. Never imagined that any thought about Palpatine's chief henchman could provoke such hilarity from people on the receiving end of his illwill.

Another picture of a time long since past. Luke is a bit puzzled.

"What kind of a beastie is that? I've never seen one like that before."

"That's because you never left that desolate rock of yours in the first place,otherwise you would be more familiar with the zoology of other systems. This here is my beloved "Mystic Past", a Dhysheerin from the Royal Stud of Alderaan. She was an Albino, which is pretty rare."

"Was she easier to ride than a Tauntaun?"

"Much easier. And much more comfortable to sit on;which doesn't mean that she didn't dump me occasionally. Usually when I was either riding in company - say, while attending the annual Tinnin hunt - or when I was performing in front of an audience. Her specialty was to send me nose first into a water jump."

"Are Dhysheerins native to Alderaan?"

"Not really. They are related to a species of pack and riding animals native to the planet Corellia, over in the Corell system. The Corellian Doran and the Dhysheerin developed from the same ancestor, but split into two different species about 2 million years ago. The Doran is much smaller, has longer coarser hair, a smaller horn and a "beard" instead of a dewlap. Also, the Doran lacks the trunk. Dorans are tougher and can exist even on the sparsest of diets. Dhysheerins are prettier, not nearly as stubborn and cranky, but much more expensive to buy and keep."

"You seem to be quite familiar with the native Corellian zoology."

"In case that comes as a wonder to you, please remember who I shared a spaceship with before coming here to Hoth."

"So he's an animal, huh?"

"Yes - part stubborn, cranky Doran, part half-civilized, quick-to-anger Wookiee - and all nerf."

"Say, you mentioned an annual hunt..."

"Oh, yes. The Tinnin-hunt. Have you ever heard about it?"

"No. What's a Tinnin?"

"A funny little droid. It's a metal globe, roughly 80 centimeters in diameter, hopping around on just one leg. It serves as a game animal, Alderaanian laws forbade parforce hunting after live animals- and dead animals make bad targets for hunting. So we had this yearly social highlight of chasing a droid across the fields and meadows of my home. Lots of fun. I would love to do it again."

Luke pulls his legs up and folds them crosswise. Getting comfy, are we, Blondie?

"Tell me about it. Was it exciting? Did anything funny happen on such a chase?"

In that instant, the door slides open and in comes Threepio, carrying a tray with two cups, a pot of hot Njyshka* and a plate of cookies. Hmmmm! How thoughtful of you, goldenrod.

"Yes. Sometimes, very funny things happened. For instance, when a certain protocol droid became my involuntary "shadow" on such a hunt a few years back."

"Oh my - please, your Highness... do not remind me of that unfateful day. It was a rather unpleasant experience, if I may say so."

Threepio, Master of the Order of Pomp and Circumstances, sets down the tray on a nearby table and throws me the best "spare me" look he can manage. Not easy with a metal face that lacks expression.

"Aww - c'mon, Threepio... I wanna hear this," Luke laments.

"But, Master Luke, Sir..."

"Why don't you want to let me tell the story, Threepio? It's so cute... and you are the hero of it. Remember?"

"Threepio - a hero?"

"Yes. Believe it or not, Luke, but our golden boy here saved the day."

Then I turn to the droid.

"Threepio, I offer you a deal. You let me tell Luke about the hunt - and afterwards I arrange for you an extended stay in a lubrication bath. How does that sound?"

"If you don't mind my saying, it sounds like blackmailing, your Highness. Is it possible that you have been in bad company for too long?"

"Threepio, you are not implying that Captain Solo is bad company, are you?"

"If I may say so. Actually yes, your Highness. But I must admit, the thought of taking a bath in a tub full of high quality cleansing oil sounds very appealing..."

"OK then. Sit down over there, Threepio - as it is possible that I need you should my memory fail me; and you, Luke, will now get an insider's view of the social life of the so-called "High and Mighty" of our galaxy."

Where is my Silta*, 7-1B?"

"I am rightfully sorry, your Highness - it has not returned from the cleaning facilities yet."

"This I believe, you rustbrained bucket of bolts. And it never will - unless you go and get it. It will certainly not come back here all by itself."

Droids. Can't live with them and can't live without them. If it was possible for droids to have children, then my silvery gleaming servant could easily be the mother of that impossible, cumbersome but invaluable, walking protocol machine, C-3P0. I watch the metallic "maid" hamper off into the general direction of the cleaners: two stories down and then across the paved yard to the low, gray building on the left side of the square. The skies are still dark over its roof, but the light of the stars is already fading. The twin suns of the Tatoo system, usually among the brightest objects in our nightly skies, are mere ghosts of stars against the pale yellow that announces the rise of our own sun, Aldea.

I glance at the timepiece next to my still crumpled bed: 0430 hours. I seldom rise - much less shine - at such an early hour. But today I have to. Protocol calls for it;and this one time I enjoy following the protocol. Today I attend the annual Tinnin hunt.

The first outside guests from neighboring places are scheduled to arrive here at about 0600 hours.Their high class landspeeders, some of them prized and well kept antiquities, will pull into the driveway, transporters in tow that house some of the finest Dhysheerins in the land. Other guests from farther away have already dropped in yesterday, and are staying at the palace. Most of them will use animals from the royal stables form the hunt, but some always bring their own.

The hangars and parking lots are overbrimming with shuttles, skyhoppers, speeders and other vehicles, plus the busy maintenance crews who are constantly polishing the metal until it's worn so thin you can read computer printouts through. In the stables, droids and humanoids are busy feeding, mucking out stalls, cleaning animals and tack, sweeping the barn aisles - and swearing at un-cooperative steeds who believe that biting, kicking or wallowing in the dirt after just having been cleaned are amusing and appropriate pastimes to while away the hours until the chase starts.

I have heard my father tell of the old days, years before I was born. Years before an ugly little Senator from Mantooine proclaimed first a revolution, then the Republic of old dead, and finally himself the crowned head of a new transgalactic empire. Oh, it must have been quite a sight; amongst the traditional hunting dresses and colorful uniforms, the respect demanding black tunics of the trained Jedi.

The picture of a young General Kenobi slips into my mind. Gentle gray-blue eyes sweeping the turbulent, gaily colored scene unfolding there in the center square, a knowing little smile at the antics of a droid trying to steady a highstrung mare. Daddy said he looked quite splendid in black, and on his black steed. What was his name again? Uh - C... C... something with a "C"... wait! Car... Cor... "Coray Ya'an"? Yes, that was it. "Coray Ya'an" - Corellian Wind. Kenobi used to say that his mount was just as unpredictable as the wind on this outer rim world that to us "civilized" galactic citizens was only a four-lettered word, so to speak.

I remember General Kenobi only very vaguely. Father claims that I loved to sit on Kenobi's knees and listen to his tales of far away planets and times; of places and people so wild, so colorful and strange that I - the little whirlwind with the constantly blabbering mouth - actually remained still and quiet and just listened attentively as not to miss the smallest syllable.

According to my Dad I had a special love for pirate stories, and everything dark, sinister, and eerie. Not very fitting for a princess, I do admit;but children are children, right?

Oh, 7-1B is back. Finally. And there is my Silta*; snowy white and with a collar as stiff as 3P0's behavior. Fantastic.

7-1B helps me into my riding clothes, which is not really necessary (after all, I am 17 years old and quite capable of helping myself), but that's what servant droids are for. Hm, how come that the soles of one's feet start itching the minute the boots are on? Now I can't scratch myself without first taking my boots off again. Stupid. Very stupid. Someone should invent riding boots with soles that snap conveniently on and off.

7-1B - bring me the royal inventor! No, bring me the royal shoemaker! Forget it - just bring me some feet that never itch!

I am curious to find out who my "shadow" on this hunt is going to be. Every lady rider is accompanied by a man - a "shadow" - who rides at her side during the entire hunt, regardless of what happens. If one rider of the pair (male or female) dismounts involuntarily, the partner will have to catch the mount of the fallen rider (if possible), return it, and help the dumped rider on again or see her/him home safely, should he/she have gotten hurt. Unfortunately, on never knows the "shadow" is going to be - until the name is drawn during the breakfast ceremony in the Knights Hall, over in the east wing of the palace.

Hopping down the sweeping stairway into the big entrance hall, taking two or three steps at a time, I see my old man in his parade field uniform. These are the moments when I realize what a handsome man he is - or must have been in his younger years. I hear his soft, unemotional voice greet Senator Mothma, who is just like me wearing a white Silta* and tight britches. A bit too tight maybe, judging from the telltale bulges on hips and thighs. With age comes respect, but also some "extra padding". Her mare will probably not mind - the old cranky Drooibark* is a bit on the lardy side, too.

Of course, the Empire is here today, too. Palpatine may be old and wrinkled, but he is not stupid. With so many important people from all over the galaxy meeting for such a high ranking social event as the yearly Tinnin hunt, the possibilities for secrecy agreements among potential members of the Rebel Alliance intending to overthrow the Imperial government are evident. On the other hand, inviting Imperial bigshots to the hunt is not the worst diplomatic move. The so-called "hide in plain sight" tactic, counting on the unsuspectedness of something as brash and risky as a conspiracy under the very eyes of the chief henchmen of his Gruesomeness.

Over near the entrance to the hall I spot the haggard figure of hatchet-faced Grand Moff Tarkin in full regalia, looking as unhappy and undernourished as an undertaker in an area full of healthy young people. Tarkin is absorbed in a discussion with senator Purvillan and Yyad Kitt, the Moff of Mandalore, who just happens to be a good-looking individual. But then, a lot of Mandaloreans are. If only he wasn't an Imperial.

The doors open and in walk Mergo and Ehadi Calrissian, Baron and Baroness of Sirman of the outer rim jungle planet of Ahada in the Corell system. She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen; a perfect, silky skin the color of Horkho* and milk; big dark eyes framed by dense, long and curved lashes, glistening black hair interwoven with just a few fine threads of silver here and there. Laughing - a sound reminiscent of gaily clanking windchimes - her sensuous dark red lips reveal even teeth whiter than the top of Mount Imaheed. It is impossible to guess her age, but she is said to have three grown children, two sons and a daughter. The oldest son, Andolon, is a member of the Ahadaan senate. The daughter, if I remember correctly, married the owner of the famous Dirin-Gorean starship company, whose space liners cruise the routes to the most beautiful planets of the inner galaxy.

Only the youngest of the Calrissian kids, whose name has escaped my memory, is said to be somewhat of a misfit. A playboy, so the rumors go, whose money, namem and title open doors that should rather be closed in his face. I once heard Baron Mergo Calrissian lament, mockingly ,that nine months before the birth of his youngest son, the family had a Corellian milkman.

Quote: "He can't possibly be mine. No self-respecting Ahadaan ever played Sabacc for a living."

Oh, please - give me a break here, Baron Calrissian. A woman the caliber of your wife would never sink so low to betray her husband with a milkman. Much less a Corellian, of all persons.

Amidst the illustrious guests milling in the grand hall appears the golden god of the loose screws - C-3P0. This is his element. A sentence of stilted Mandalorean to the left, a few select words of Mantooinian to the right, here a couple of syllables in Yavinian, there a handful of Ahadaan pearls... He is so busy he does not even have time to think of things to worry about. It's your day, 3P0. Lucky you. But now I am hungry. Please, palace cook, ring the breakfast bell.

Oh, there is a god - and he heard my silent plea. The doors to the Knights Room open wide and reveal a long, long table framed by seemingly endless rows of highbacked chairs. Hmmm - I smell Horkho* and fresh Dooceys*. Where is my chair, 3P0?

Above the mantle of the huge fireplace gracing the far side wall of the Knights Hall, the royal and vice-royal coats of armor greet the guests, along with the dark millennia old painting of the first reign of the galaxy, Johrge of Modestoraan from the House of Luca, also known as Johrge the child. He was quite young when he established his empire, and what he lacked in age and height he made up for by being smart - and stubborn like a Doran.

Along the walls, under the tall, narrow windows that sit so high even a full grown male Wookiee would have trouble peeking through without climbing a chair, run long rows of knightly crests; most of them so timeworn that they no longer can be deciphered. From the high ceiling long banners hang down, moth-eaten and so dusty their once bright colors have long since turned to a musty indefinable darkish brown-gray-black hue. The crest right across from where I sit says "S.y..l.e.". Hm, whatever that's supposed to mean? Stycaller? Spypuller? Skyfiller?

I am pulled from my deep thoughts by 3P0's tinny announcement that the drawing of the "shadows" will now start. A large golden cup is passed around the table, every woman drawing one of the shiny capsules it contains. The capsules are then handed over to the protocol droid, who opens them and announces the lady's partner for the hunt.

Lady Hedded M'Tran, Countess of Orihel will have the pleasure to gallop alongside my father. The countess is Meshkgorian. Pretty, if you like humanoid reptiles - or reptilian humanoids. I wish I had her curves. I don't like her voice tho'. She sounds too much like an aggravated Gamorrean. But despite her throaty, growling voice she is very friendly and has a great sense of humor.

Now it's my turn to draw a "shadow". I fish, and fish... decisions, decisions. Then I draw a deep breath, grab, pull - and hand the droid my "catch of the day". I know I've made a mistake. 3P0 opens the capsule and announces:

"Her Highness, Princess Leia, daughter of Bail Organa, Viceroy of Alderaan - and Admiral Phran Ozzel, Commander of His Majesty's First Fleet."

Ozzel? Egad - what a choice. My luck Lord Vader or the Emperor himself has not followed the invitation, or I might have ended up with a "shadow" darker than the inside of a Black Hole.

As Ozzel does not have a Dhysheerin of his own available he will be mounted on one of ours, a five year old gelding named "Morning Sky" (by Morning Call out of Skies Ablaze). Racing blood. Bright orange from the tips of his ever-twitching ears, down to his small, bluish claws. I have tried him out three times, and three times he has sent me into orbit. Have fun, Ozzel! I wonder if the Admiral will be skilled enough to handle the spitfire. Wouldn't it be funny if he would gain squatter's rights in a nice swampy spot? But then I would have to catch his mount and wait for him to climb back on... and by then the hunting party would long have vanished on the horizon.

I look over at my partner, who is seated on the opposite side of the table and two chairs farther down towards the fireplace (Hop in, Fleet Commander!). Ozzel looks over at me and smiles -this thin, sly, arrogant little smile that seems to be his trademark -in my direction. You ass... soon as we are finished here we will go out and fetch our beasties.

At 0800hours sharp we rise from the table and assemble in the entrance hall under the giant golden chandelier. As a child I always imagined what would happen if its anchoring gave way and the thing came down. I remember once spending half an hour just staring at it, until - either in reality or in my vivid imagination - the chandelier started moving. I also remember that I became very frightened, believing that maybe my thinking made the thing move. Imagine that: My thinking! What am I? A wizard? A Jedi?

If this strikes you as being ridiculous - join the club. Funny, the only person I ever told about this incident was General Kenobi. My memories of him are not very clear, except for that one occasion. To this day I see him smiling a sweet, somehow sad, little smile and hear his quiet voice - slurring his "Th"es to soft, mushy "Dh"es - say: "Dhe time will come, darling, when you will know if what you've seen was real or not."

Shortly after that left Alderaan again (he only dropped by every once in a blue moon anyway), and ever since then no one has seen him around. Father says he lives on a remote planet out in the galactic boondocks, over in the Tatoo system. One day I will go there and see what this end of the universe looks like and find out if he's still alive. One fine day...

Outside, on the center square, in front of the big open stairs, the first mounts appear, led by glistening servant droids and other invaluable helpers. Father's big Horkho*-colored stallion is the first one out. I love him - he's such a sweet natured animal. Next in line is the spitfire, "Morning Sky": rearing, dancing, prancing, shaking his head, snaking his neck and misbehaving all over. The droid leading him has trouble maintaining his balance. Mothma's servant brings the fat old mare who looks plain grumpy.

Same procedure as every year. Last year when the lady climbed aboard I heard two young Imperial officers wagering whether the seams of Senator Mothma's overstuffed breeches would tear open under the stress of withstanding the onslaught of several spare tons of lard. I had wanted to place a bet, too. But that would not have been very proper, leave alone diplomatic. So I sighed and refrained from having fun.

And here comes my darling, "Mystic Past". The long rays of the morning sun turn her ghostly white coat into a pale glowing pink. It'' going to be a very beautiful day... not a cloud in sight, and a nice little breeze to keep the hunting party refreshed.

The Tinnin appears on the scene. Sproing - sproing - sproing. The silvery globe on its one spring-suspended telescope leg hops wildly to maintain its precarious balance. The Dhysheerins eye the droid suspiciously. Some long ears fold back flat against downward arched necks. Big eyes roll back and forth with every movement of the metal ball. Tails switch. Claws stomp and scrape the pavement nervously. A snort here and there. And then it happens.

The darn Tinnin gets too close to the orange colored goofball, "Morning Sky" squeals and kicks - and hits a bystanding servant droid square in a place where a direct hit would have left a common male of most any species permanently "out of order". All the droid will need is a one-hour stay at the repair shed. It sometimes pays to be made of metal.

The unruly mount swings his rear end around, steps sideways and comes to a halt with his left hind claw on the right foot of Admiral Ozzel. Ozzel's eyes cross and his face takes on an unhealthy color. He looks as if he desperately wants to cut loose with a string of obscene verbal pearls, but the highly official surroundings - including ladies of all shapes, colors, sizes and ages - forbid such doing. Helpers rush to the scene, pushing and pulling the clumsy nag away from the unlucky Admiral, who is then helped into the building. Looks like he will not attend the hunt after all. Fine; but that means that I will have to stay home, too;unless I can find a new "shadow". In so short a time?

Everybody else is already mounted and the hunt is about to start. The Tinnin has left the yard and is merrily hopping down the lane. Quick - find me a partner for the ride, 3P0. The golden droid starts lamenting that all the possible riders are already teamed up and that the rest of the royal court remaining at the palace are strictly of the non-riding variety. True, true... but where there's a will...

One of our little maintenance droids, R2-D2, rolls by. He beeps something into my direction that is obviously a suggestion. Hopefully not a sleazy one, my little dustbin on wheels. 3P0 meanwhile has scampered off into the farther realms of the inner court, looking for possible "shadow" victims. As I watch him go I notice how human he seems. Like a man in a metal costume.

Oops... just a minute here, people. If it looks like bread, smells like bread, is baked like bread, and tastes like bread... then it may be called bread. Right? 3P0 looks (basically) human. He talks, he walks, he thinks (unfortunately more than he should occasionally), and he knows protocol (which is an asset in a situation like this). So why am I looking for a partner? There is my "shadow" for the hunt.

"THREEPIOOOOOO - come here at once!"

"Threepio. Hurry up. We have to get a "Sheerin" ready for you."

"For me? Excuse me, Your Highness, but is it altogether possible that I misunderstood you? It sounded as if you intended to..."

I cut him short.

"Yes. Exactly. You will be my "shadow" today. So come on. Time is a-wasting and the others have already left the yard. If we don't hurry, we will miss the event completely."

With this I grab the droid by his left wrist and pull him towards the main stable. In through the big gate, off to the left, down the long aisle that is flanked on both sides by big box stalls. Ah - there! Left hand side, last stall "Swordfighter". Despite his martial name, the dark bay gelding who is already crowding 26 is anything but a warrior. I guess every person here at this palace who ever took riding lessons learned his first skills on and around this old campaigner. I did, too. That was 13 years ago, when I was only 4 - the year my mother (my real mother, not Baileen Hirma Organa) died.

"Swordfighter",who hates being left alone when his stablemates go out and have fun (Hey, we all can relate to that, I think!) greets 3P0 and me with a happy squeal and leans over the chesthigh sliding doors, poking his velvety white nose into my face. Hi there, old man! I have to push him back from the door and watch out that he will not run me over and take off without the droid aboard. 3P0 is less than enthusiastic, but helps me - lamenting all the while, of course - to saddle and bridle the steed.

"I will certainly fall off and jar my chips, Your Highness!"

"No. You will not. Don't you dare. Don't you even think about it."

"But, Your Highness..."

"No. Three times no. Shut up, talkdroid and quit being such a pain in the neck. Please!"

"Swordfighter" nibbles on 3P0's right hand. 3P0 pulls back and inspects his gleaming hull to see if he has lost any digits. He then points out in his usual stilted fashion that my while Silta* is getting dirty. Is that a wonder, with a Dhysheerin slobbering greenish saliva all over my left arm, rubbing his ole jughead against my chest and leaving tons of dust and dark brown hairs in its wake, and snorting a bit of wetness into my collar? Nice. Thank you, fellow. You are really making my day.

I hand the reins over to 3P0.

"Here. Lead him out of the barn. I will make a dash for my mare."

With this I leave droid and mount and zip back to the place where a servant still holds my albino. Stand still, "Misty". Mother has to get her leg across your croup.

Ahhh - done. I wriggle around in the saddle to find the right spot for my little fanny, sort out what goes where (reins, hands, feet, stirrups, the works...), then watch as 3P0 climbs aboard his four-legged transport. It is quite an amusing sight to see. But with the help of some stable hands he finally manages to get on - and off we go.

We leave the yard at a walk, then pick up to a brisk trot once we hit the lane that winds its way between two rows of stately old Drooi trees. It's always cool under the canopy of their leaves, even in the hottest of summers. "Misty" snorts and tries to jump the shadows of the tree trunks that turn the road into a dark and light striped band. Maybe to her the shadows really do look like obstacles - or maybe she is just feeling a bit too good and makes this nonsense on purpose. Who knows? "Sworder" does not show this kind of irrational behavior. He simply jogs over the dark areas as if they didn't exist.

3P0 bounces along, his shiny armor rattling a bit. To my right the "Hole" appears. We call it that. It's just a gap in the row of trees. The missing tree was felled by a bolt of lightening long before I was born, and a new one never took its place. Some "road apples" hint out that the hunting party has turned off the road here and went through the hole. So 3P0 and I follow their example. We leave the pavement and turn into the grass on the side of the road, cut between the trees, hop the narrow dry ditch behind the trees, crash upwards through the hardly visible gap between two huge old Telliere brushes that flank the trail - and come onto a wide meadow with tall grass. Hooray. Off we go. I hardly have to cue "Misty", as she is more than eager to hit a higher gear. How do you spell "canter", mare? D-E-A-D-R-U-N!?? Yes - I thought so. SLOW DOWN, Force Almighty!

I glance over my shoulder at my "shadow", who is clinging on for dear life as the dark bay covers the ground with long, easy strides. "Sworder" has always been a running machine. Smooth, too;and easy enough to control even at top speed. A few minutes later the droid has found out that a gallop is much easier to sit than a trot and is, now that he is in rhythm with his steed, starting to enjoy the ride (more or less). What he really enjoys is the fact that today, at this very moment, he is not just considered a mechanical,humanoid-looking robot only made to serve his masters, but a fellow rider attending one of the most important social events in this galaxy. He is "someone". A member of the upper class. Prestige. Noblesse. 3P0 - king of the droids.

Topping the gently rolling hill I spot the hunting party over on the other side of Rivkin valley, going uphill towards the forest. Once they hit tall timber, they will have to slow down a bit or run the risk of colliding with low hanging branches and getting catapulted from the saddle. It's our chance to catch up with them. So I point out my thoughts out to 3P0 and we ride like outlaws on the run down into the valley. Rivkin valley, named for the little creek that runs through it, is just a mere dip between grassy hills. No steep drop-offs to slide down or banks to climb. All you have to do is jump (or ride through) the creek, which is only between 5 and 40 centimeters deep, and between 50 and 120 centimeters wide. No big deal. A grandma on a broomstick could accomplish that. Even 3P0 has no trouble staying aboard as "Sworder" crosses the brook;and from there it's literally all uphill until we reach the forest.

Minutes later the canopy of leaves, twigs and branches closes over our heads and surrounds us with the aromatic and always slightly damp cool of the woodlands. The spongy ground absorbs and dampens the hoofbeats, as if trying to prevent the destruction of the saintly silence by loud clopping noises. But it's obviously still too loud for the local zoology as a Nityak, its bright golden tail a busy signal flag waving goodbye, zips up the stately trunk of a nearby tree and warns other forest dwellers with an enraged outburst of choppy, barking calls. Yak-yak-yak-cheeeee-yick! And gone it is. Funny little fool.

We have slowed down a bit to give the mounts a breather. Something behind me says "ping" and "ouch", and looking over my shoulder I am in time to see 3P0 wiping a wet leaf off his forehead, plastered there after what was an unintentional run-in with a dangling twig.

"Excuse me, Your Highness, but is it really necessary to ride through such a dense forest?"

"You call this dense? Have I got news for you, Threepio - this here is a wide, well groomed bridle path. Wait until we hit the undergrowth."

But before we do, we finally catch up with the hunting party. Hm, just a naughty thought on the side, but shouldn't Lady M'Tran be seated on an animal with less choppy strides? The hammering up-and-down movements of the little black she's riding makes her sumptuous "balcony" wobble lasciviously which certainly distracts the sick little minds of the surrounding men from concentrating on the hunt. Lady M'Tran notices me, turns around and asks: "So you did make it to the hunt, did you? I thought your "shadow" was unable to join us?"

"Yes, the Admiral couldn't make it, unfortunately - but I found a replacement."

I point at 3P0, which provokes gasps from everybody within earshot. A droid as a "shadow"? How shocking. How highly unorthodox. The droid meanwhile is so proudly sticking out his gleaming chest that it's only good his armor doesn't feature buttons, or he would certainly pop them off now.

There's that good-looking Imperial lieutenant again, grinning broadly and winking an eye at me. Imperial or not - I think I will dance with him tonight when the palace ballroom opens its double doors. It will neither hurt politics nor me. If diplomacy calls for it, a politician will even kiss the enemy. I would have trouble tho' if the enemy wasn't as young and handsome as this grayclad officer. I would not kiss Tarkin or the Emperor. Period!

The trail narrows and my old man mutters a four-lettered word under his breath as a shower of dewdrops rains down into his collar from the wet leaves of the young Finnark* he just brushed shoulders with. Governor Tarkin catches a back swinging twig in the face (instant replay, please!) and Senator Mothma, lifting her middle position out of the saddle and leaning forward to duck under a branch, offers the onlookers a backside broad enough to make an excellent billboard. Have you ever thought about putting up that space for rent, Mon? You might make a lot of credits that way.

Bad thoughts have their own way of backfiring. Unconcentrated as I am I overlook a fallen log, and as my mare hops it, I almost lose my knee-grip and land on her neck. Oops - sorry, old girl. Then we lose track of the Tinnin and spend some exciting minutes searching for the one-legger.

When the globe finally jumps out from under the brushes to the lefthand side of the trail, all our steeds nearly suffer a heart attack and things get really wild for a minute. I have to steady 3P0 with one hand, as he is about to glide out of the saddle, whilst steadying my mare with my other hand, as she is about to quit the country. Sometimes I wish I had eight arms.

The Tinnin hits high gear again and takes off as fast as his one leg will carry him. The trail he takes leads over a bunch of up-down-and-around obstacles and then out of the forest into the fields near the little village of Rivgar. A bunch of peacefully grazing nerfs stares questioningly at this mottled bunch of weirdoes chasing a metallic thing what-for to who-knows-where and comments this nonsense with low grunts and bellows. We canter down a sandy, weedy path between grainfields and nerf pastures, cross a little wooden bridge (with a lot of hum and haw as a few Dhysheerins refuse to set foot on the planks), follow an unimproved but graded road for a while, which eventually leads through a short tubelike tunnel as it crosses under the major highway to Mahdin-Var (the resounding and narrow tube again proving a bugaboo for our steeds), and finally enter an open meadow that borders Lake Woma.<./p>

Lake Woma's 10 square kilometers of water surface gleam in the morning sun and lure prospective water sport enthusiasts of all kind to come and have fun. Those who follow the call to the wet wild will soon find out that at this time of year and day Lake Woma is a "look-at-only" body of water, tho'. The hunting trail leads through the waters of this lake twice. The first a splash-through course crossing a small and very shallow bay, the second is a jump over a wooden rail down a bank into deeper water, a short ride through the water to where it gets a bit more shallow - and then a jump out of the water up a steep bank. This is the tricky part. I know "Misty" hates this. Let's just hope 3P0 will not fall in... the water will ruin his chips.

SPLASH - and we are in the water crossing "Munnard Bay". I hear a young Imperial lieutenant mumble "If I wanted to get wet I'da joined the Planetary Navy". Aw - quit lamenting. If I had a love affair for each pint of water in my boots I'd have a reputation like a Corellian barmaid.

"Excuse me, Your Highness - but do we have to ride through the water?"

"No, Threepio - if you would rather swim, that's also fine with me."

It was inevitable that he would ask that question. You are predictable, my dear;and aggravating. Then it happens. We reach treacherous "Binnet's Trench". "Swordfighter",as if knowing that his rider is by no means up to such skills of ridership, takes the easy way out by sliding down a narrow path next to the rail and entering the water like a normal swim-through. I, of course, have to dare Lady Luck by forcing my mare over the plank and down into the water. "Misty" hesitates just momentarily, then jumps and makes a fine landing in the lake, where some Dhysheerins and their riders are already afloat - some together, some separate from one another.

Confident in my own skills (after all, I have stayed aboard up to now), I steer towards the jump-out. Wrong move, Leiababy. "Misty" this time lacks the necessary power to catapult herself high enough out of the water to find solid footing atop the bank. Instead, she makes a half-hearted try - and falls back into the water. So do I. "Misty" and I separate and while my mare scrambles to her feet again and takes an easier way out, I am on my rump in the mud, the water up to my nose and my happy, festive mood down the drain. Someone get me the butcher on the line... I have a business proposition for him.

Looking up I see 3P0 astride his mount up on the bank.

"Oh, my - Princess Leia..."

"Threepio, before you go into lengthy explanations - fetch my mare and bring her back to me. I can get to my feet all by myself."

Obedient and eager to please, my "shadow" turns around and rides after my steed who has long since vanished on the horizon. The rest of the hunting party thunders on - and I'm alone in my misery. It's cold, my wet clothes cling to my shivering body, I'm all mucked up from crawling up (and constantly sliding down) the steep bank, and I've just about had it with that Dhysheerin of mine. Then, about half an hour after my nosedip (no, rumpdip!) in the lake, 3P0 is back. No "Misty". Not even "Sworder". Just the droid. I'm devastated.

"Where are the nags?"

"I'm rightfully sorry, Your Highness - but I fell off when I leaned out of the saddle to catch the reins of your mount. Both "Misty" and "Swordfighter" took off immediately. I guess they are already on their way back to the stables by now."

" Yes, probably. So that means all we can do is ride home on Shank's mare - which will take us only about 3 hours - at least!"

"I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but who is Shank? And are you sure he will lend us his mare to ride double?"

"Ah, Threepio - Shank's mare... that's just a saying. A cliche, meaning 'on foot, by walking'. Understand?"

"Yes, Your Highness. Altho' - it doesn't make much sense."

And so the droid and I wander down the trail, through meadows and fields and through the forest, trying to cheer one another up as good as possible. We even start making fun at our dire situation.

Just as we march down an idyllic forest path and discuss the shocking discovery that the riding apparel of Lady M'Tran not only sports a daring décolleté but becomes transparent when it's wet, I overlook a big root twisting across the trail. My right foot catches on and WHAMMO! I land nose first in the dirt. For a second I'm a bit dazed, then, as I slowly pick myself up - the ever helpful 3P0 naturally lending a golden hand - discover that the landing was a bit rougher than it appeared. My chin is skinned up and bleeds, my face is scratched, a small but sharp stone has bumped my right eyebrow and forehead and left a bluish-black and rapidly swelling bump in its wake; my hands and knees have taken a beating, and my right ankle is obviously sprained as it hurts like the place of everlasting damnation. Neat. Now I will have to hop home like a Tinnin - on one leg. We will never reach the palace before nightfall.

After hopping and hobbling down the trail for another kilometer or so it becomes obvious that I can't walk on this foot any longer. 3P0 has provided himself as a "walking cane" for me to lean on, but it simply isn't enough. Then he has an idea that is as surprising as it is logical; he will carry me on his back to the palace. So I climb first onto a field marker, a flat stone by the side of the road, and then onto the invitingly offered back of the droid. I am fully aware that protocol droids are not meant for carrying heavy loads, especially over long distances;but it's worth a try. After all, he can be repaired should he break down.

I'm much harder to get back into working order. On wobbly legs, unsteady and slow 3P0 hikes towards the still faraway palace. I cling on and am just happy that he does not need to breathe. Otherwise, we would be in trouble, as I am clutching his neck like a month-old Wookiee cub.

Slow, ever so slow do we swagger and sway down the road. Then the road rises a little to form a silly little hump and naturally, my mechanical "steed" topples over backward, unable to maintain his upright position any longer. I land on my backside with a nasty thud - the second time within two hours or so - and find myself blanketed by a heap of golden metal and multi-colored cables. Aw - droid. Get up and off of me. You are heavier than you look.

Just this minute, while the two of us are rolling around in the dirt, an Imperial patrol ship - unarmed but certainly manned with a bunch of lusty soldiers - passes overhead at a low altitude. I can just imagine the whoops, whistles, and dirty cracks resounding through the ship upon seeing a girl in a pose as daring as unladylike (on her back with her legs in the air) and with a talkdroid on top of her (altho' backwards, with his face to the fluffy white cloud that looks a little like the helmeted dome of Lord Vader).

Life's embarrassing moments!

It is 1700 hours in the afternoon when we finally waddle and sway onto the center square of the palace. Immediately we are surrounded by swarms of helpers, who help me off of 3P0's back, then lead the droid towards the maintenance building (poor 3P0 can hardly walk any more and I all of a sudden feel as sorry for him as I would for a real person) and me towards the palace stairs. Dad meets me halfway up the stairs, picks me up and carries me inside and up to my room, informing me that our steeds arrived half an hour before the rest of the hunting party returned. Then he asks me whether I will be able to attend the dance and fireworks scheduled for the evening hours or am I in serious need of medical attention?

Men! Give me a minute, Dad. I will have to rearrange my aching anatomy and find something better to wear.

Luke stares at me, his mouth open.

"And? Did you attend the dance?"

"No, Luke. Quite frankly - I was so worn out I barely managed to take off my riding clothes and clean myself up a bit. After that I collapsed on the bed and slept, in my underwear, until the next morning."

"And you, Threepio? How did you survive the hike?"

"Oh, don't ask, Master Luke. My joints were almost frozen and I needed some replacements. Chips that had jarred loose, circuits that had been jammed by the fall off the Dhysheerin. Very, very unpleasant. But I must admit I had a lot of fun that day."

"Yes, and you did receive some excellent treatment in the repair shop and a nice long lube bath. Besides, you were made my personal servant after that," I remind him.

"When I first met him," Luke points at 3P0, "he told me he was the property of one Captain Antilles?!"

"You told him you belonged to Captain Antilles?" I ask the droid and pour myself another cup of Njyshka*.

"Yes, actually - I did;but I did not know Master Luke at that time. He could have easily been loyal to the Empire, and I did not want to risk your life, Your Highness."

"See, Luke. Now that is loyalty. Mark my words: good men are a credit a dozen, but good droids are hard to find."

How come I do have the feeling that he does not quite believe me?

Index

The Comfort of Strangers >>

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