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Sirens echo in the cabin, in the corridor, and in Shmi’s ears. She claps her hands over them to try to block out the sound; cupped they only amplify it.
Shmi closes her eyes, curls into her mother’s lap, and tries to wish all the chaos and confusion away, but it won’t leave. The screams of the other passengers strike more terror into the girl’s heart than anything else, even the pounding against the transport’s hull.
Several crew members arrive to shepherd the passengers to a safer cabin. They are instructed to leave everything behind. No one objects.
Shmi’s father picks her up and carries her as he walks behind her mother.
The corridor is long and crowded; it is difficult for the passengers to keep their balance as the ship is bombarded. A blast hits the ship, not too far from the passengers; they are tossed against the wall. Shmi buries her face in her father’s shirt and lets out a terrified sob. She is not the only child seeking comfort from their parents.
The crew members leading them panic. They try to turn the group around and head back. Only some of the passengers hear their instructions.
Confusion heightens with people heading conflicting directions and the constant rattling of the ship. There is shouting and crying; anger and fear. Nobody is moving anywhere. Shmi clutches her father tighter.
Then it happens. A blast breaches the hull of the transport; its explosion charges down the corridor; all fades to black.
Faint muttering wakes Shmi.
Her arms hurt; they have been badly burnt. There are people all around her; they look like they are sleeping.
She tries shaking her parents awake. Their eyes don’t open. She begins to cry.
Her sobs attract the attention of the mutterers, looters (pirates) down the corridor. A couple of them come to investigate with lanterns and blasters. Habit tells them to point their blasters at any living thing, even if it is just a child.
One of them shouts back to the group, “It’s a girl! Get the boss!” Then to his compatriot, “Check the others. We may get some live cargo out of this little excursion.”
He stands, gun trained to her head, waiting for backup. The wait isn’t too long. More pirates make their way down the corridor, each one nastier-looking than the next, and each one ready to fire at anything that moves. Some of them kick the bodies as they walk past them, others stop to pick pockets, but the scariest one keeps her stride and a watchful eye on Shmi the whole time.
The man who went off to look for more survivors returns. Breathlessly, “There’s three more in this passage alone. There could be more throughout the ship.”
“Take a small crew and search it thoroughly, we wouldn’t want to miss out on any profits,” the captain’s words are heavy with slime. She turns and kneels before Shmi, “Now, what exactly do we have here?”
Shmi stifles a sob as the captain reaches out and grabs her face to examine her. (It is the first of many times she will feel that grip on her jaw.)
“You’re a pretty, little thing aren’t you? I bet you’ll fetch a decent price; more if the Zygerrians would trade with us. The Tatooine slave markets will have to do.”
“Do we have enough rations, to be taking on live cargo, cap?” another pirate asks.
“There will be no question of that if I get rid of useless crew like you,” the captain snarls. The other pirate takes a few steps back.
Shmi whimpers and the captain returns her attention to her.
“Do you have a name, girl?” Somehow the slime from her voice has disappeared. For just a moment, Shmi believes she cares, that she might not hurt her.
“Shmi,” she whispers.
“What about a family name? Something for the ledgers,” it returns thicker than before.
She tries to wrench her head from the captain’s grip, but she’s too strong. Shmi tries backing away, but the captain follows, inching closer.
One of her crew brings shackles.
Shmi screams; terrified of the pirates, terrified of the chains, terrified of the bodies, terrified of being alone in the galaxy.
The grip on her face is removed and replaced by a sharp pain in her cheek. Screams turn into tears.
“Somebody get this kid out of my sight, onto the ship, and shut her up,” the captain orders.
One of the crew shackles Shmi and forces her onto her feet, pushing her forward with the barrel of his blaster. Silently sobbing, she does what the cold metal tells her to.
Behind her she can hear the captain tell her men, “We’ll use the name of the ship at the auction, less hassle that way. Besides, it won’t matter after she’s been sold.”
Shmi doesn’t understand what the captain means, but she feels all hope vanish as she steps off the Skywalker in chains.
----------
Keep your head and your eyes down, stick to the shadows and perimeters of the room, that is what Shmi learns to do in the service of Gardulla the Hutt. Fade into the background, do your work, don’t speak, and they’ll have no reason to punish you.
It is her shield from the world.
Shmi skirts around the bounty hunters, pirates, gangsters, gamblers, and other scum who come to the palace, always keeping her distance. They frighten her, a young girl steadily growing more mature and drawing more attention, no matter how hard she tries to hide.
From the shadows she watches as dancers and kitchen maids alike get dragged away to empty rooms. She hears their anguished cries and unwilling moans and she trembles. There isn’t anything she can do to save herself from the same fate.
Master Gardulla encourages her guests to avail themselves of her slaves. It satisfies their hunger, making them more amicable to do business with (satisfying Master Gardulla’s appetite). Sex, gambling, alcohol; whatever vice or whim pleases them is at their disposal.
The happier they are, the more complacent they are and the cheaper they can be bought.
Late at night, Shmi hears the unfortunate souls weeping. They pull themselves together afterwards to complete their duties, but at the end of the day, there is little left to do.
Shmi curls her knees into her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. She doesn’t want to weep like them. She doesn’t want to weep ever again. She thought she cried all her tears after she was bought and paid for, but the first time she witnessed one of the other girls being violated she didn’t think she would ever stop.
Not far off, there are other slaves, slaves who have grown numb to the pain. They do nothing to comfort the ones who are unused to this treatment.
It makes her sick. She doesn’t want to be like them. She doesn’t want to be unfeeling, but it seems a fate inescapable.
Get treated as nothing long enough and, eventually, you will treat others the same.
She stifles sobs by burying her face in her knees.
Keep your eyes and your head down. Keep quiet. Stick to the shadows. Maybe they won’t notice you.
----------
The first time Shmi is taken by one of Master Gardulla’s guests, she is at once all too conscious and not fully aware.
She doesn’t know what to do. She barely knows where she is, but she knows what’s happening – her worst fears coming true. She struggles to no avail. Her captor is too strong for her.
“Keep still,” he hisses. “Keep still and I won’t tell your master about your disobedience. There now, you should be thanking me. I’ll take what’s mine and we can both be on our way.”
Every moment of the experience is burned into her memory: the gleeful look in his eye as he forces himself on her, the hot tears which stain her cheeks, the pressure of his hand on her mouth preventing her from shouting, the feel of him as he spreads her legs.
When he is through, he leaves her.
Shmi breaks.
She is cold and alone; naked in the dark. No one cares for a poor girl’s – slave’s troubles. She cries like she has never cried before, until her tears stop. Still shaking, she dries her eyes and returns to work.
There are others, many others. All treat Shmi the same manner. She doesn’t exist to them beyond what they want her for. They forget the pleasure they took from her and her even faster.
Shmi forgets their faces, but the pain never leaves.
----------
A small girl sits in the corner and cries, Shmi notices her as she comes to collect more serving trays for Master Gardulla’s guests.
The girl is not quite as young as Shmi was when she was brought into the service of the Hutts; nonetheless, Shmi recognizes the girl’s fear and pain.
Guilt pangs in her chest.
She was this child.
Not a soul in the galaxy would have looked twice at a weeping slave girl, or offered her comfort.
Shmi pities the girl and longs to extend a hand to her, but cannot will her muscles to move. She has no comfort for herself; she has none to give.
----------
She is late to bleed. It’s happened before. It happens to the other girls too, but this time, Shmi is scared.
Sometimes, when the other girls are late, they are taken away to have a surgery. Most of them refuse to talk about it. The rest don’t come back. The girls who come back cry harder than before. Weep as though something has been physically ripped away from them, not just the dignity which is stripped from them daily.
Most nights it is their cries which keep Shmi awake, and that now she is late, she dares not think of what the surgery might be.
Her own bunkmate was taken away not too many nights ago for the same reason, only to come back more broken than before.
They’re not friends (slaves don’t allow themselves to get close to anyone), but they help each other on occasion; they try to look out for one another. Try to warn each other when the foreman is coming or when one of Master Gardulla’s associates is eyeing them hungrily.
They sleep back-to-back, never looking at each other, sharing each other’s warmth as much as their bed. They know the coldness of each other’s feet. They know the pattern of each other’s breathing. They know when the other bleeds.
Shmi feels her bunkmate’s breathing even as she stops crying. She is the closest thing Shmi has to a friend, but neither dares to cross that line.
“Don’t let them take you away,” Shmi’s bunkmate whispers hoarsely.
Shmi is startled from her half-sleep, “What did they do to you?”
For a long time, Shmi thinks her bunkmate won’t respond and tries to settle down again.
“They took away my baby. They’ll take yours away too, if you’re as unlucky as me.”
Shmi doesn’t answer her. (What do babies have to do with it?)
“You haven’t bled in a while. You might be…”
Shmi turns over, “Might be what?”
Still facing away, her bunkmate replies, “Pregnant.”
Something stirs in Shmi. It stirs in her mind. It stirs in her soul. It stirs in her. And Shmi knows it’s true.
----------
As far as Shmi is concerned, there is no father. She knows there must be one, but she refuses to accept any of them are her child’s father.
It is possible to grow up without one, she thinks.
She tries to remember her own father, but the only recollections she has are a pair of strong arms shielding her from fire and another pair of charred and black ones still embracing her when she awoke.
That doesn’t mean my baby has to grow up alone.
She stuffs another protein pack into her hidden stash. (Will it be enough to make it somewhere?) Ready or not, Shmi has to run tonight. She may not get another opportunity like this, Master Gardulla and the overseer both away. She doesn’t know if she’ll have enough courage at a later time. She barely has enough now, but she has to do it.
Life as a slave is brutal to those who understand their life is not their own, but it worse for those who don’t know – can’t understand.
She places a gentle hand on her stomach. There is barely anything there, hardly a bump at all, but she knows it’s there.
She draws courage from it.
She draws courage for it.
She has to leave before they can take her baby away.
Shmi double-checks to make sure her supplies are well-hidden before returning to work. One word repeating in her head: tonight.
Darkness falls at a crawling pace; the suns taking longer than ever to sink below the horizon. When they finally do, the empty wasteland waits for Shmi to cross.
Sand shifts easily beneath her feet, but she is determined. She knows how best to walk across them; she does not let her eagerness overcome her sense. Practicality must preside over everything from here on.
Still, the temptation to run is hard to resist. She’s running away, after all. Running from slavery, running from abuse, running from captivity and chains; running from the only place she has ever called but never wanted to call home.
Only it never was a home. It was a prison.
If anything, she’s running to a home.
The sky has changed from a bright evening purple to a deep blue by the time she stops for a rest and a drink. The water washes the sand away from her lips.
Shmi looks back to see how far she’s come. The palace still looms over her, but she left the borderline of Master Gardulla’s property over an hour ago.
There is no fence surrounding the palace, just the desert. The desolate country is enough to prevent slaves from taking flight. After hours of trekking through sand, making her way to the edge of the world she knows, Shmi can’t think of a better way to keep slaves captive. They would all have to be as desperate as she is to try.
A cold wind blows wisps of her hair loose from her braid. She closes her eyes and lets it wash over her. It is pleasant now, but Tatooine nights are as brutal as its days; she could freeze out here if she’s not careful.
Picking up her sack of supplies, Shmi looks over her shoulder again. Her eyes widen at what she sees in the distance.
Huge, black shapes moving toward her and fast.
Forgetting her cautious trudging, she pushes hard on the sand and tries to run. She clutches her pack close to her chest and picks her feet up as high as they will go. Her stride is long, but her breath is short and she cannot keep up this pace.
The dark figures close in on her.
----------
Shmi is put on the market for the price of one.
In a few months’ time, when Shmi begins to show, her new master relishes in the bargain they procured from a Hutt.
A victory not many can claim without putting their life at risk.
----------
Shmi receives the best care she has ever had in the late months of her pregnancy. Her new master, a pacithhip, spares expenses where he can get away with it, but Shmi has an actual doctor with her when the baby is born.
Though the day is long and the pain excruciating, a healthy boy is delivered.
His lungs take their first breath and he wails. The sound calls to Shmi and she holds her arms out to be filled with him. His cries quiet as he recognizes the warm embrace of his mother.
Shmi is home. She knows she will always be home as long as this child is with her.
It is simple and instinctive. A mother and son.
They are left alone for the rest of the day; Shmi too exhausted to be on her feet and the baby far too young to be without her. They are content and they are happy for those precious hours.
(Reality cannot touch them.)
----------
They both wake up screaming: the baby cries in his crib, the mother tries to banish a nightmare.
Shmi wipes the sweat from her brow and attends to the little one. She rocks him gently, hoping that they didn’t disturb the master.
As the baby is soothed, so is Shmi’s troubled mind.
The dream was so vivid; she could have sworn it was real. She could almost feel the fire singe her arms and smell the burning. But the worst part was not the feel or the smell. The worst part was the screaming.
The screaming and the sirens rang louder in her head than her child’s sobs.
It’s over now. Shmi breathes a sigh of relief and walks over to the window, still cradling her son.
There is no moon, but the stars are clear and bright. They shine down through the window, illuminating the baby’s face. He coos happily. Shmi smiles at him and turns back to the sky.
Her eyes scan the heavens looking for pictures. There was one thing she enjoyed while working in Gardulla’s palace: overhearing the other slaves make up tales about the images they saw in the stars. Nobody makes up stories here.
Sometimes she wished she could join them, but she has no imagination for such things, so she listened and remembered.
She spots her favorite picture of the sky. The stars depict an image of a man holding a wheel. His is not the story of a great hero or a wise scholar; his is the story of a simple man and humble origins.
A mysterious woman gave him the wheel and instructed him to create the threads which hold the planets, and the moons, and the stars in place. After he completed his task and had hung all the planets and stars in the sky, he sat down with his wheel to watch the galaxy turn.
Shmi thinks it’s a beautiful story, and although she knows it isn’t true, she likes to believe there is someone watching over them, making sure they won’t fall.
The baby yawns and Shmi’s chests swells.
Like the man made of stars, Shmi is going to watch over this child and make sure he never falls.
He still doesn’t have a name.
She looks back at the sky, trying to remember the name of the man with the wheel. But she can’t; she doesn’t think he ever had a name.
In the corner of her eye she spies another picture: a warrior named Anakin, who fought giants that threatened the galaxy.
The name resonates with her.
“Anakin,” she whispers to the baby.
----------
It is the third time Shmi has been sold; the first where she is more concerned for someone than herself. Anakin is still an infant in her arms; any slaver could rip him away from her if they wanted to, but none do.
One of them eyes the baby closely; he looks slightly dazed.
“I’ll take these two,” he says.
Through some miracle, Shmi and Anakin stay together a while longer.
----------
Anakin is three when they are sold again. He causes and gets into more trouble than one his age should.
But Shmi is a favorite of their master and he is loath to sell her. So he doesn’t until he can’t put up with a child that disrupts his business anymore.
Shmi wonders why he doesn’t just sell Anakin.
It’s what any other master would do.
Regardless of her confusion, she is relieved to not be parted from her son.
-----------
It becomes the norm: they are purchased, Anakin can’t control himself, and they are sold. Together.
It happens so frequently, Shmi no longer questions it. She is glad to stay with him.
But it causes problems, all the same. Anakin is growing up; his incidents don’t qualify as accidents anymore. If Shmi could take responsibility for his actions she would, but the damage he causes to the shop fronts and trading posts of their masters is indisputably his.
They make her watch as they beat him, “Maybe then you’ll teach your son to behave.”
Anakin takes his beatings stoically, putting on a brave face. He tries not to let her see him breaking.
Shmi watches his beatings with silent tears. Watching his pain is worse than any mistreatment she suffers (her nights are still accompanied by uninvited strangers in her bed).
She tries not to let him see her breaking.
----------
From what she knows of children, Anakin is an unnaturally intuitive little boy. He understands the nature of slavery better than Shmi did at his age and resents it.
He clings to what is wholly his: his stubbornness, his intellect, his dreams, and his name. He takes great pride in his name.
Shmi tells him only those born of the stars have such names.
He is as wistful as he is perceptive. Shmi encourages it. She encourages him to look to the skies for consistency and direction, for dreams and freedom. The stars give Anakin what Shmi cannot.
(A promise of a better tomorrow.)
----------
Anakin sleeps fitfully and Shmi hugs him tighter. She is fully awake, terrified of what the next day will bring. They are being sold again and she is not sure luck will favor them this time.
Shmi kisses the back of his head as he shudders.
“Please keep close to me,” she whispers, a few tears drip from her face onto the bed.
“I will, mom. I promise.”
Shmi is startled by Anakin’s reply. She assumed he was asleep. Her surprise fades as he turns to face her.
“You’re worried about tomorrow, aren’t you?”
There’s no use denying it; Anakin reads her so easily, “I’m always worried when we are put on the market.”
“Because you think we’ll be separated?”
“Yes.”
Anakin goes quite, his face contemplative. Shmi watches as something turns over in his mind. She likes watching Anakin like this; his face remains unchanging, but he can’t hide anything in his bright blue eyes.
“You shouldn’t worry.”
Shmi furrows her brow, “Why not?”
“Because when we’re sold I always wish really hard that they don’t separate us and it works.”
“Oh Anakin, it’s not as simple as that.”
“But it is. Wait and see. Tomorrow we’ll be brought to the market and when someone picks one of us, something will come over them and they’ll buy the other one too.”
Softening her voice, Shmi allows herself to be carried away by Anakin’s fancy, “What do you wish on?”
“I wish on the stars,” and he amends quickly, “but not Tatoo I or II.”
She chuckles lightly at her son’s aversion to the suns and his pride in his limited education, “But they are the only two stars visible during the day.”
“Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there, mom,” he explains exasperatedly.
She smiles.
He knows she’s teasing, but his face turns sour and his blue eyes darken, “Am I a disappointment to you?”
All joking drains from her and concern takes over, “Of course not. How could you ever think that?”
“Sometimes I think you would rather I didn’t get into so much trouble with the masters and that I could keep my mouth shut…”
Shmi strokes his cheek as she reassures him, “You are my son and I love you no matter what. It pains me to watch you struggle and be unable to help you. You are a person, Anakin. Don’t ever forget that. As long as you can think and feel and love, you are you, and you will always be my little boy.”
Her assurances do not have the intended effect. Instead, his face darkens further. Shmi knows this look. It is the expression he wears when he fights with a slaver or a master, when they tell him he’s just property, when they tell him he isn’t a person.
“Why are we slaves?”
The question churns in Shmi’s stomach; a part of her is eaten away by it. She has no idea. She knows she was not born into Gardulla’s service, but she can barely remember a time before then.
She doesn’t remember what freedom feels like.
Does it feel any different?
----------
They are shackled together at the market as prospective masters examine them. A slaver extols their best working qualities and displays their healthy figures. Many pass them by. It’s not often slaves are sold as workers and not pleasures. A few look do look at them.
Well, they look at Shmi, and ignore the child. She is still young and, despite the years of cruelty, is considered very pretty. She clenches her jaw as they turn her head to inspect her closer. They release her immediately on hearing the asking price.
The day grows late and Shmi fears spending the night in the stock cages. Slavers treat slaves who don’t sell worse.
Across the way, a toydarian argues with gaggle of jawas. He spits at them and flies off; the slaver makes a move towards him, trying to take advantage of his foul mood in order to sell him overpriced stock. His sneer gives the slaver pause.
Pointing randomly, toydarian makes a demand, “Those two. And you’ll sell at forty percent less than asking price for trying to cheat me.”
The slaver stammers an apology, and the deal is struck. Shmi and Anakin are unchained from the other slaves and follow their new master to his shop.
“Did you wish on the stars, Anakin?” she whispers.
“They always come through.”
----------
It’s a junk shop. Not much to look at, but Anakin takes to it right away.
He finds all sorts of nooks and crannies among broken appliances, droids, and ships. When there is nothing for him to do, Anakin hides away amongst the immense stock piles, doing who knows what.
Shmi treads carefully. She doesn’t allow herself to get comfortable in the homes of her masters.
She is particularly cautious now because of the junk. One of her tasks is to see to it that the stock is organized and clean, but if she breaks anything Master Watto has threatened to sell Anakin. The threat is meant to keep her in line, and she heeds it. Shmi doesn’t take chances when it comes to Anakin.
The shop is huge and Shmi gets turned around. She has no idea how Anakin learned his way around so quickly, let alone how Master Watto conducts his business.
After weeks of working in the junk shop, Shmi finds herself hopelessly lost among the towering junk. Panicked, she trips over several out-of-date circuit breakers, crushing them under foot.
With a sharp intake of breath, Shmi goes completely still.
This will be what separates us, she despairs.
Anakin gives her life meaning, makes it full. If Master Watto takes Anakin away she’ll be nothing but an empty shell again. She buries her head in her hands, trying to hold back the sick feeling washing over her.
“Mom?”
Shmi jumps.
Anakin appears from around a pile of broken down ship parts. “Are you okay?”
She can’t speak so she just shakes her head and points to the circuit boards, hoping the message will be clear. Not missing a beat, Anakin collects the boards and examines them.
“Come with me,” he insists.
Shmi is dumbstruck, unable to move. Taking her by the hand, Anakin leads her through the maze to one of his hiding places. Shmi is amazed by what she sees; all around her are reconstructed engines and droids, experimental power converters and steering mechanisms.
“Anakin, did you do this?”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t believe the kind of neat stuff you can find here. Some of it’s in terrible shape, but there’s almost always something else that can fix it or make it better.”
He happily flits about his creations, collecting tools before sitting down at a makeshift workbench.
Shmi’s eyes wander as he tinkers away with the circuit boards. She doesn’t know where it came from, this ability to create and repair. If she thinks back, she can remember him fixing various odds and ends, but never anything as big as a podracer engine.
“Skywalker! Where are you hiding?! I need you out front!” Shmi turns about abruptly at the sound of their master’s voice. Anakin doesn’t even look up. “Skywalker! I will sell your mother offworld if you don’t get out there now!”
Master Watto rounds the corner with a fury the likes of which would frighten sand people. Still, Anakin doesn’t move. He’s nearly finished the repair job.
“Skywa –” the toydarian’s jaw drops. “Did you do all this?”
At last, Anakin puts down the circuit board and replies obediently, “Yes, sir.”
“The boy has talent,” Master Watto says to himself. Then to Anakin, “Get out front! We’ll talk about this later and it’ll be added to your chores.”
Anakin casts a cautious glance at Shmi, but Master Watto shouts again, “Go!”
Anakin scampers past and Master Watto turns to Shmi. He narrows his eyes, “We’ll have to think of a new way to punish you. This time, you got lucky.”
From what she knows of their latest master, he likes to gamble – he likes to cheat. He cheats both his customers and at gambling. But he doesn’t like to be cheated. Being cheated is being undermined and Master Watto was just undermined by a slave. Shmi knows he can’t have taken kindly to that.
But as long as Anakin has skills, Master Watto will exploit them, and will not much care to give him up. They have a permanent home, of sorts, for now.
----------
“You don’t need to buy replacements, you know?” Anakin informs a customer as Master Watto pretends to look in the back for the requested items. (He knows exactly where they are.)
Shmi can hear him shouting for her, but she chooses to ignore him and watch Anakin at work. She takes as much pride in Anakin’s abilities as he does. She just wishes he could do something more with them than work in this junk shop.
“But Watto just said…” the customer tries to protest.
“Master Watto’s trying to cheat you. Your vaporators are in better condition than anything we have in stock. He’s also trying to make it seem like they’re in high demand by taking a long time to get back to you.”
Shmi can’t see the customer’s face, but his posture changes; he’s giving in to Anakin.
“What would you suggest then? Broken vaporators don’t do me any good come the harvest.”
“Let me have a look.”
Anakin takes the equipment from the customer and puts it down on the front desk. Before too long, he’s taken out his tools and tinkers away, making adjustments as he sees fit.
“Hey! Wait a minute, kid –”
“You’re going to want to muck these out more often than you’ve been doing. That’s what really screws up the gears, and if the gears jam, then the rest of the vaporator has nothing else to do but implode in on itself.”
He twists the screwdriver faster and faster; moving like lightning from one instrument to the next, never once taking his eyes off his work to look at the man. Shmi wishes she could see the expression on his face as a nine-year old makes repairs qualified technicians hadn’t been able to make.
“Here,” Anakin hands the vaporator back to the customer. “You should get out of here before Master Watto comes back and finds out you don’t need his crap.”
“Thank you,” the customer calls after Anakin as he disappears into the back.
Now that he’s turned around, Shmi can see the man’s face. He looks worn and tired – there’s something of loss in his countenance too; it is masked by the impressed and shocked look he wears as he stares down at his newly-repaired vaporator.
Still not quite sure what just happened, the man turns to leave.
“You’ll still have to pay the master for Anakin’s work,” Shmi says, though she loathes doing it.
The man stops in his tracks.
“Anakin is a good boy to try to save you credits, but he doesn’t realize doing free repair work could get us into trouble.”
Shmi steps out from her hiding place and folds her arms in front of her.
“The boy is yours?”
“Yes.”
The customer introduces himself, “Cliegg Lars”
“I’m Shmi Skywalker.”
He offers his hand, but Shmi keeps her arms wrapped around her. Awkwardly, he lets his arm fall to his side. “Where did your boy learn mechanics like that?”
Shmi shrugs, “He’s never had any schooling and I don’t know how he could have picked it up from any of our former masters.”
“Well, he’s got a real gift.”
“He does,” Shmi agrees wholeheartedly.
“I don’t want him getting into trouble, so I’ll wait around here until Watto shows up.”
“Thank you.”
They stand facing each other in silence. Shmi has already made her examination of Cliegg Lars, but only now is Cliegg Lars getting a decent look at her.
She feels exposed, but not in danger. He doesn’t look at her the same way most men do. The cruel, hungry eyes are not there; all she sees in this man’s face is pity, and perhaps a little discomfort. She knows how she must seem: a single enslaved mother; what else could her lot in life have been?
Clearing his throat, “How long have you been a slave?”
“As long as I can remember.”
The idea of slavery clearly makes him uncomfortable; he starts looking at everything that isn’t her. “So your boy was born…
“Born a slave? Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
Lars continues to avoid her gaze. Shmi wonders if he leave if she turned her back. Anyone else on Tatooine would. (But he promised.)
The silence between them is broken when Master Watto emerges with a pair of banged up moisture vaporators, “Here we are. It took me a while to find them, so ma –” He spots the repaired vaporators under his customer’s arm.
“How?”
“The boy fixed them for me. I’ll still pay for services rendered, of course.”
Master Watto glares at Lars, but they settle on a price. And Lars leaves with a heavier pocket than Master Watto is happy to let go.
He grumbles for a week.
----------
Unexpectedly, Cliegg Lars returns to the junk shop. Anakin is out back exploring the inventory; Shmi is alone in the store front.
He tips his hat to her as he enters, “Shmi.”
“Mr. Lars, I’m afraid you’ve come at a bad time if you’re looking for the master. He’s not in and didn’t say when he’d be back.”
“I’m not looking for Watto, I’m looking for you. And please, call me Cliegg.”
His smile is friendly and warm, no hint of vileness about him.
“What can I help you with?” she asks with trepidation.
Just as he opens his mouth to reply the shop door opens again and Master Watto flies in. His face turns ferocious when he recognizes the customer. “You? What do you want?”
Lars looks back at Shmi, looking for some indication that what they were about to discuss something themselves; she gives him none.
He sighs. “Let’s speak in private,” he says to the toydarian.
The master’s office door slams shut behind them and Shmi is left behind the counter. A part of her is tempted to listen at the door, but from the little she knows of Lars – the little she has inferred about him – she has too much respect for him to disrespect his private business matters.
An hour, Master Watto and Lars are locked away in the office. Raised voices occasionally escape the cracks in the door, but nothing intelligible.
They emerge; both seem satisfied, even if Master Watto appears inexplicably bitter at the same time.
“Shmi, you and the boy go pack your things,” Master Watto orders.
Shmi is rooted to the spot. What is he saying?
“Didn’t you hear me, woman? Go get your things!” he snaps.
Startled, Shmi quickly leaves the counter and goes to collect Anakin. They pack a few changes of clothes and return to the front of the shop. Master Watto is gone, Lars waits alone.
He smiles at them, “I’m sorry Watto barked at you, he’s a little upset.”
Shmi looks at him skeptically. Master Watto is generally upset, there’s nothing new about that.
Lars continues, “What he failed to tell you is that I’ve purchased you and your son. You’re coming to work on my moisture farm.”
Everything about his demeanor turns ugly. Her stomach twists into knots. Shmi can hardly believe herself for letting her guard down, for letting herself believe that there was any good in anyone on this forsaken planet.
He’s just another slaver. Still, she obediently follows their new master out into the burning sun, their small pack slung over her shoulder and Anakin at her side.
----------
They arrive at the homestead by dusk, greeted by Lars’s son, Owen, a boy of fourteen. He watches the Skywalkers, perplexed, as they settle into the rooms Lars offers them.
A feeling of dread sinks in when their new master asks Shmi to meet him in the kitchen. She navigates the halls of the homestead with apprehension. It is a modest lifestyle the Larses lead. They own a few repair droids. There are no other slaves.
Entering the kitchen, Shmi senses a missing presence, someone long gone from the home father and son share.
“Please sit,” Master Lars offers.
“I would rather remain standing, if that’s alright, sir.”
“If it makes you more comfortable,” he says gently. “And you don’t have to call me ‘sir’. Can I get you something?”
Her brow furrows. A master serving a slave?
“No, thank you. Can I get you something?” She nearly adds ‘sir’, but stops herself before it escapes her lips.
The master chuckles, “You don’t even know your way around the kitchen.”
Shmi replies with a blank stare and Lars takes a seat at the table.
“I would like you to stop acting as if I’m your master.”
She protests, “But, sir –”
“No. Hear me out. I purchased you and your son today, not for myself, but out of charity. In a few days time, I intend to go to Mos Espa to apply for manumission for you and for Anakin.”
He continues to speak, but Shmi cannot hear him. Manumission – freedom.
A faint feeling overcomes her; the steady rise and fall of her chest stops. She can only look at the man before her with wide eyes.
His voice and image exist only in a haze, “Shmi?”
It calls again, louder, “Shmi?”
A callused hand holds onto her arm and leads her to a chair. Her vision clears and a glass is placed in front of her, but she cannot reach for it.
Her mouth is dry, “I don’t know what to say – how to – how to thank you.”
He takes the seat across from her, “You don’t have to. I hate to see people in your position.”
She’s having a difficult time understanding. “Why? Why us?”
He shakes his head and shrugs, “Something my late wife, Aika, said. She said, ‘There’s nothing so evil in the galaxy as separation from one’s loved ones’. She told that to me on her death bed and now she’s gone, I know there’s nothing more true. She’s gone from me, she’s gone from Owen – I couldn’t let the same happen to you and Anakin.”
He goes quiet.
Shmi can’t imagine what it must be like to lose such a partner, but she sympathizes. A son has lost his mother. Unbidden, she pictures Anakin alone, without her.
For the first time, she can reach out; she can give comfort. She places a small hand on the man’s arm, a moment later he covers it with his own large hand.
“The pair of you are welcome to stay here as long as you like. I have jobs for you, you will have pay, and you may leave whenever you wish, whenever you can support yourselves.”
Shmi takes his hand in hers. “Thank you – for everything, Cliegg.”
----------
The heat of the suns feels somehow different.
It still kisses her skin a little too harshly, but they are kisses of pleasure, not of pain.
Everything still seems surreal.
Anakin works beside her as they visit each filtration system. They take their time, treasuring every breath of wind, every smell in the air, every taste of water; every moment of their newfound freedom.
Anakin takes to freedom as if he has known nothing else in his life. He’s always had a good head on his shoulders, always known who he is; he floats now.
The mother has never seen her son so happy.
Shmi takes to freedom like a child stepping out into the suns.
Eagerly, she awaited Cliegg’s return from Mos Espa with proof of their freedom, but once handed the document, she was hesitant. The suns shone brightly and she had to shield her eyes in order to accustom herself to the new light.
Now she walks in the light of the suns with pride.
----------
Though it is not expected of her anymore, Shmi clears the table after dinner. The farm is enough of a home to them now that she is comfortable taking on such daily tasks. Cliegg lingers in the doorway.
“You seem to fit here,” he says ponderously.
She laughs, “In the kitchen?”
He looks down and smiles at his feet, “No. I don’t mean that. You seem happy here. At ease.”
“I suppose, I am,” she agrees also, smiling. She can’t recall ever being so happy, not even after Anakin was born. There was always the looming threat of separation and punishment. She only wishes she could say the same for Anakin.
Since their initial breath of freedom, Anakin has grown less content. There is not much for him to do here. The workings of a moisture farm can only satisfy his curiosity into the world of mechanics so much. He is often bored and has no one his age that he can spend time with. His temperament is too different from that of Owen and his friends.
But he is learning. For the first time, both he and Shmi are getting a true education. They knew enough to get by before; now the galaxy is opening up to them.
“I’m glad,” Cliegg says, bringing Shmi out of her thoughts.
She smiles again and nods.
“It’s nice to see you smile too,” he adds.
Shmi feels suddenly shy. Too timid to respond, she merely nods.
In the months they’ve been here, she becomes increasingly aware of how Cliegg acts around her. Always gentlemanly and cordial, she has never encountered a man who acts with such deference. It makes her feel as if she were a proper lady, not a woman raised in chains.
Cliegg steps fully into the kitchen, “Shmi?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know if this is appropriate, but I believe you belong here and I want to make your place here permanent. I would like to make this our home, not just my home.”
Shmi is frozen again.
She doesn’t know how he keeps doing it to her, but everything Cliegg has done since she met him has been a surprise; a wonderful, life-altering surprise. But that makes a difference in how she feels for him.
“I don’t want you to say ‘yes’ out of gratitude or because you think you owe me anything. I want you to say ‘yes’ because you want to make a life here. Because maybe you feel the same way about me, as I do about you. If you need time to figure out what it is you want, that’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.”
He is in earnest. His intentions are true and his words are heartfelt. This is a man who has already loved and lost once, who has lived his life under Tatooine’s suns and known their comforts, as well as their suffering, and come out the better for it.
And though she never had a normal girlhood, dreaming of the man she might one day marry, she is not disappointed by his appearance. Maybe he is a little gruffer, a little older, a little more worn around the edges than her imaginings would have been, but he is not unappealing.
She feels safe around him; safer than she has ever felt in her life. She feels gratitude, yes, but she feels something more than that too. “I will marry you.”
----------
Their wedding is small and unadorned. Anakin, just turned ten, hands his mother away. They are not sure if that is a custom in these parts, but it feels right. The day passes without festivity; a few neighboring families drop by to offer their congratulations, but nothing more.
Night falls and Shmi follows Cliegg to their room.
The bed is large and empty, and for a moment Shmi fears it. She knew this was a part of marriage, but she doesn’t know if she’s ready for it.
Cliegg does not make any advances. He goes about his nightly routine and climbs into bed. Shmi bites her lip and follows suit.
She climbs into bed with hesitation and finds herself enveloped in a warm and gentle embrace. Cliegg rests his arm over her, as she once did for Anakin and nestles her head just under his chin. Tentatively, she pulls the covers over them and laces her fingers with his.
----------
Without realizing it, Shmi has two sons, Anakin (her own) and Owen (Aika’s).
(One of life’s unexpected turns.)
Owen is old enough not to need a mother anymore, especially a step-mother, so she tries not to overstep his boundaries. But she wants to love him anyway, for his father’s sake. Owen is receptive to her, belaying her fears of step-motherhood. He comes to her for advice and he comes to her for comfort. It may be strange for a while, but they make do.
Being a wife is different than anything she’s known. As a slave, she only ever did. As a mother, she only ever gave. As a wife, she must do and give, but she also receives. It is a companionship.
Cliegg is loving and respectful. He understands she has a complicated past with sex and does not pressure her, nor does it seem as if it was ever something he expected from their marriage. Still, when she kisses him deeply for the first time he gladly responds in kind.
Shmi willingly and joyfully slips into her new roles, but worries constantly about Anakin.
Whether he admits it or not, he has grown restless. He finds the homestead life tiresome and disappears when he thinks no one will notice he’s gone.
He didn’t raise any objections to the marriage; in fact, he encouraged it, but Shmi can’t help feeling responsible for this new trap Anakin finds himself in.
----------
It’s a struggle to not worry when Anakin goes away.
True, she allowed him to go, but Tatooine is not a kind place.
Anchorhead is not large, it is difficult to get lost there, and it is close – closer than Mos Eisley, where Anakin tried to convince her he could go alone – but he is young and he could easily get hurt.
She warily watches the empty skyline and rings her hands. She doesn’t know what time he will return, but he promised it would be before dark. The suns are nearly set and he hasn’t come home.
Part of her wants to go after him. It’s her fault he’s stuck at the homestead, her fault he needs to look for another way to occupy his time.
As it grows later, Shmi only grows more anxious.
What if something happened to him?
“Come inside, ma,” Owen entreats. “I’ll wait for him.”
She shakes her head and cranes her neck to see further. Anakin is not Owen’s responsibility.
Owen remains in the entryway while Shmi waits.
When Anakin’s figure appears on the horizon, Shmi lets out of sigh of relief. The last light of day disappears just as he is in her arms again.
She scolds him tenderly, “Try to be home earlier.”
He nods his head and follows Owen inside.
Shmi stays out, watching the moon rise and to look at the stars. The time of year is right and the man with the wheel gazes down on all of them.
----------
There are no tears to dry.
He is leaving and that is that.
Shmi folds her arms across her chest and hugs herself, pretending he is still in them.
Strange how her greatest fear only happened after they were freed. Anakin is being taken away. A hollowness in her tells Shmi she won’t ever see him again.
She lets the morning suns bake her skin as she watches the distant horizon.
She wishes on all the stars, except Tatoo I and Tatoo 2, “Keep him safe and let him find happiness in whatever he does. He belongs to you as much as he belongs to me.”
Letting the words escape her lips seems to put some power into them. She doesn’t know what will happen to Anakin, but believes that somehow he’ll be alright.
----------
The homestead is smaller without Anakin, but it is no less homely.
Cliegg and Owen do their best to make up for her loss; they understand what it’s like for a loved one to leave.
Even so, the months stretch on, and they don’t hear a word from her son. Shmi grows listless.
She finds herself looking to the sky most nights, searching the endless black for some sign. All she sees are the stars; they do not cure heartache as much as they inspire a desire for adventure and bigger things.
A familiar picture hangs in the sky at night, which both soothes and troubles Shmi. With sword in hand, the Anakin in the sky protects the galaxy, but Shmi’s Anakin is out there among the giants and who’s to say they haven’t swallowed him whole.
----------
Life holds onto its simple joys.
Shmi has a family: a husband who she loves and loves her, a step-son who accepted her though there was no need, and now a daughter-in-law.
Beru Whitesun marries Owen with a shy smile.
Neither is particularly keen on publicly displaying their relationship, but they muddle through the ceremony and Beru moves to the homestead. Their family is a little larger, a little warmer, a little more complete.
And maybe it is complete for the others, but not for Shmi.
A piece of her heart still stays far away, out in the black. “Anakin, do you live somewhere with a love of your own?”
----------
She has watched the suns set and the moon rise an uncountable number of times. Each time it reminds her who she is. Each time it reminds her she is free.
Shmi doesn’t often think of it, except for those evenings when the sky is open before her and she knows she could run out to them if she chose to.
But she chooses to stay here.
A plain, simple life.
When she looks back on her years of enslavement, she knows it is all she ever wanted. A world of jewels could not have made her as happy as she as she is at Cliegg’s side, even now, as his health declines and Owen takes up his father’s mantle.
Not two seasons ago, Cliegg lost his leg from infection, making it difficult for him to continue work. Shmi helps as much as she can, both around the farm and with Cliegg’s health.
During the day she is theirs, Shmi Lars.
The night belongs to her and the stars, still Shmi Skywalker.
There was a time in her life, she could only look at the stars and see the pictures drawn by others and hear the stories they told. It is different now. With no news from Anakin, Shmi learned to be near him through their light.
They whisper stories to her now. Stories of a young man who lives his life among them, a man who lived a lifetime of troubles and has earned his reward.
They tell her she as earned hers too.
----------
Owen stalks about the kitchen, unable and unwilling to do what he knows he should.
“I can’t do it, Beru! I won’t! What business is it of his anyway?”
Beru says nothing, Owen doesn’t expect her to. It was a sudden shock to them all.
The back of Owen’s head collides with the wall as he leans against it, eyes closed.
He can see it so clearly. The streets of Mos Eisley, the bounty hunters who passed them by, and the shots that were not meant for her.
Shmi was dead before they could reach a doctor.
Pa locked himself away when the body was brought back. Neither Owen nor Beru have seen him since. They try to coax him out, but to no avail. They let him be.
It falls to Owen to reach out to Anakin, though they do not know how they can possibly make contact with him. They don’t know where he is. They don’t even know if he’s alive.
Stubbornly Owen decides, “He doesn’t need to know.”
----------
Half a galaxy away, Anakin looks up to the sky from the battlefield; he lifts his face and closes his eyes to feel the cool breeze.
There is something different about the stars tonight.
They feel distant.
Untouchable.
Empty.
He watches closely for any sort of sign.
“Anakin! We must press our advantage!” Obi-Wan calls to him. He forgets the sky and chases after his brother.