A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…
Shortly after Senator Palpatine usurped the Galactic Republic and proclaimed himself Emperor, the Jedi Order was struggling for its existence. The great Masters on Coruscant had fled or been killed by Darth Vader—once known as Anakin Skywalker. Darth Vader continued his pursuit, ruthlessly hunting every Jedi, bent on their total extinction.
In this hour of desperation, Senator Mon Mothma, the leader of the growing Rebellion, sends a message to Anakin’s little-known and itinerant half-brother, Marvel Skywalker…
Marvel Skywalker stared at the stately three dimensional figure of Mon Mothma. Even though the projection was only twenty-five centimeters tall, he felt intimidated by her personality. But within the intimidation grew a rising sensation of purpose as she spoke with passionate eloquence.
“All the Jedi Masters are dead or in hiding,” she was saying.
“Frack, Anakin,” Marvel muttered.
“We are in desperate need of men and women who can master the ways of the Force,” Mon Mothma continued. “Men such as yourself who are Force-sensitive and of any moral conscience must unite with us to defeat Palpatine.”
“I don’t know about this,” he told her. “It sounds dangerous.”
“The greater the danger, the greater the glory,” Mon Mothma replied.
Marvel straightened in his chair.
“That’s true,” he said. “So, what’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?” Mon Mothma returned, folding her hands in front of her white dress.
Marvel’s mind raced.
“I want a Winnestargo,” he said. “Not the basic model—I want the ultra-deluxe model with all the bells and whistles. The total-sense entertainment system, real wood paneling, the galactic king-size bed with silk sheets…everything. Okay?”
“Very well,” Mon Mothma replied.
“Oh, and I want the complete Hollyplanet holovid package. It gets real boring out in the black by yourself,” Marvel explained.
“Of course,” Mon Mothma sympathized.
“So,” Marvel asked, feeling quite pleased, “what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to find a Jedi Mystic,” Mon Mothma told him.
“A Jedi Mystic?” Marvel interrupted.
“Yes. Not much is known about him. But he is one of the greatest Jedi who has ever lived. There is only one problem: he is a hermit, living alone on the planet Degobah. Your primary objective would be become his student and learn the ways of the Force through him. I am uploading the coordinates as we speak.”
“And the secondary objective?” Marvel asked.
“He is Master Yoda’s older brother,” explained Mon Mothma. “I am hoping that Master Yoda will resurface there. If he does, I want someone there who can give him any aid that he might require. Of course, by that time you ought to be quite a force to be reckoned with yourself.”
“That would be a change,” Marvel mumbled.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing.”
“Anakin Skywalker—now Darth Vader—is your half-brother, Marvel,” Mon Mothma told him, quite uselessly. “If anyone can find a weakness, it will be you. You alone can stop Darth Vader now. Help us, Marvel, you’re our only hope.”
The stately figure vanished. For a long minute, Marvel stared where it had been. Then he muttered, “The Republic must down one deep hole if I’m their only hope.”
Three weeks and one-hundred and ninety-six movies later, Marvel stood on the soggy surface of Degobah. He was soaked and furious under the pouring rain. Ten meters away was his small ship, half submerged in a mucky swamp. He had tried for three hours with a cable and winch to raise the ship but nothing seemed to work. Now it was raining and raining hard, adding insult to injury. He could see the water rising. Cursing, he threw up his hands and stormed toward the trees he could barely make out through the rain.
Under the trees was better as the thick canopy shed most of the water to the fringes of the massive grove. Shaking his arms free of excess water, Marvel shook his head vigorously, sending water in all directions. He wiped his face, saying aloud, “You really did it this time, Marvy boy. What a place!” He looked around, adding, “How am I supposed to find anyone?”
“Find you, maybe they will, hm?” replied a high, croaking voice.
Marvel whirled, his blaster coming into his hand like greased lightning.
But there was no one there.
“Be not hasty, young one,” said the voice from beside him.
Turning, he gulped upon seeing the creature standing there.
The little green alien stood less than a meter in height. Its painfully thin body was barely clothed by a leather loincloth and thin sash made from striped ribbon. It looked emancipated, an appearance not helped by its large head and bulging orange eyes. Two long, pointed ears stood out from either side of the head, aiming in opposite directions, while a tufted hat barely contained a thin mass of wiry hair.
Marvel blinked again but the apparition was still there.
“The one you are seeking: who is it?” asked the creature.
“I…uh…well…”
“Witless are you?” asked the creature, tilting its head to one side, its orange eyes glittering with mischievous.
“No, I’m not witless!” Marvel snapped. “You just scared me, jumping out like that.”
“Jump out, did I?” queried the creature. “I did not. Like this would be jumping out.”
The creature sprang with shocking agility into the trees and out of sight.
Marvel was left standing there, his mouth agape. Moving after the creature, he stopped, realizing how foolish it was. Sighing in frustration, he turned and two orange eyes appeared in front of his face as a chilling howl filled his ears. He screamed in shock, leaping backwards. His blaster was firing before he hit the ground. His accuracy was something of legend but the gleaming bolts turned millimeters from the creature’s body, caroming into the trees. Stunned, he stared as his blaster flew from his hand to the creature.
The creature caught the blaster with both hands and examined it with great curiosity.
“Are—are you the great Jedi Mystic?” Marvel asked, getting to his hands and knees.
“Mystics make not one great,” murmured the creature, turning the blaster in its hands and studying it closer.
“Okay, but are you Master Yoda’s older brother?”
The great orange eyes blinked at him.
“Master of what is Yoda?”
“Well…” Marvel hesitated. “The Force, I guess.”
“Ah, the Force,” breathed the creature, turning its attention back to the blaster. “Master the invisible how does one, hm?” Its little hand wrapped around the grip, the forefinger somehow reaching the trigger, as it murmured, “Yodal, I am.”
“You don’t, do you?” Marvel asked in dread.
Yodal stuck the barrel of the blaster in his mouth.
“NO!” Marvel screamed as the little finger pulled the trigger.
The blaster went off, sending smoke out the creature’s ears. Marvel stared as Yodal stood there with a dazed expression in his huge orange eyes, the blaster hanging from his hand. The creature was chewing vigorously. After a moment, Yodal turned his head and spat. A gleaming blaster bolt shot forth and scorched a hole in a nearby tree.
Yodal frowned at the blaster.
“Very bad, this tastes,” concluded the mystic.
“That was…incredible,” Marvel muttered to himself.
“Heh!” croaked the mystic, shaking the blaster. “Parlor tricks they are.” Turning his great orange eyes to Marvel, Yodal said, “Come. Food we shall have—good food, heh!” Throwing back his head, Yodal let out a throaty, cackling laugh that bordered on insanity.
Turning the great mystic trotted through the trees with Marvel hurrying after him. If nothing else, he wanted his blaster back. He was beginning to wonder where he was being taken when Yodal let out a wild cry and broke into a run to one side of the path. Throwing a terrified glance to the other side, Marvel raced after the mystic—whatever scared Yodal was indeed terrifying.
Coming around a tree, he tripped over Yodal and landed rolling. He came to his feet, looking for a hiding place until he saw what Yodal was doing. The frowning Marvel watched the sprawled mystic reach lazily for a large mushroom. Plucking the mushroom, Yodal closed his glaring orange eyes in bliss as he savored each bite.
“What are you doing?” Marvel asked.
Yodal blinked at him.
“Eating, I am. Have you no eyes, hm?”
“Yes, I have eyes,” Marvel snapped. “And I can see you’re eating. But why the hell did you scream?”
Yodal’s eyes gleamed. The mystic held up a half-eaten mushroom.
“Mushrooms,” Yodal sighed. “My favorite, they are, heh!”
Marvel ran his hand through his hair, barely containing the curses that flew to his lips.
“Angry, you are,” Yodal observed. “To the dark side that path leads.”
Biting his lips, Marvel glared at the mystic.
With a shrug, Yodal got to his feet. The mystic began walking and munching on the remnants of his mushroom, murmuring to himself between bites. Marvel caught only portions of words but could not make out what was being said. When the mushroom was gone, Yodal whirled suddenly, stabbing a finger at Marvel and saying, “To want not, one must never waste.”
Marvel blinked, wondering what Yodal meant.
“Er…right.”
Satisfied, Yodal turned back and kept walking. Despite his four foot height advantage, Marvel was forced to hurry to keep the mystic’s pace. Yodal did not look hurried at all. Then the mystic lifted a hand, his finger extended, and Marvel waited for another wise saying. But Yodal’s body stiffened and fell headlong to the ground.
For a moment, Marvel stared. Then he ran to Yodal’s side, gently rolling the mystic onto his back. He was shocked by Yodal’s frail weight—the mystic could not have weighed more than ten kilos.
“He can’t be dead,” Marvel muttered.
In answer, Yodal’s chest rose and fell in a soft but deep breath. Another breath followed a moment later. Then another. With sickening realization, Marvel realized the mystic had fallen asleep. He slapped both green cheeks.
Yodal’s orange eyes fluttered open.
“What happened?” Marvel demanded.
“Ah!” Yodal’s gaze sharpened. A sage smile spread across the wizened features. “The mushrooms, it is. Overcomes me, the bliss does and sleep I do, heh! Very good sleep!”
At a loss for words, Marvel gaped at the mystic.
Yodal sprang to his feet, flinging Marvel’s blaster into the trees.
“Come!” cried the mystic. “We go now!”
With no other choice, Marvel followed. He maintained visual contact with Yodal for the most part though the little green mystic often disappeared and reappeared. For hours, they wound their way through groves of massive trees and splashed through swampy areas. The light was fading when the weary Marvel saw the faint gleam of metal ahead.
“I see it!” he shouted.
“Very good, heh!” Yodal replied. “Yes, very good.”
With the thought of a roof over his head and a dry place to sit, Marvel hurried forward. He could barely wait to remove his sopping clothes. I’ll stay naked if I have to, he thought. Just get me close to a heater. He stumbled to a halt, almost tripping over Yodal. They were on the edge a swamp that looked terribly familiar. Marvel could see his ship half submerged.
“But…” He could not find the words.
“A bad place to land, it is,” Yodal remarked finally.
“You mean,” Marvel choked on his rage. “You mean we just hiked thirty kilometers just to come back to my ship?”
Yodal looked up at him.
“Closer it seemed to me,” said the mystic.
“This…is…insane!” Marvel’s body shook with fury. “This is…unbelievable!” Turning to face Yodal, he stabbed a finger at the little creature, screaming, “You idiot! You aren’t Yoda’s brother—you can’t be! Who are you? What are you?”
Implacable, Yodal gazed at him throughout the tirade, his orange eyes blinking now and then.
“Yodal, I am,” answered the creature, scratching his ear. “And you are who, hm?”
“That’s what you say,” he replied, missing the question. “But how do I know?”
“What one believes, always see he will,” Yodal said, lifting a finger. Frowning, the little mystic began to examine the finger. Chewing on the fingernail, Yodal looked up at him, asking around the finger, “You are who, hm?”
Still breathing heavily, Marvel answered, “I’m Marvel Skywalker. People…people call me Marv.”
Yodal’s mouth fell open. The mystic lifted three fingers and counted them off, saying, “Anakin Skywalker, Lars Owen, Marv Skywalker…all half-brothers.” The mystic’s orange eyes lifted to gaze at Marvel. “A busy woman was your mother.”
“Hey!” Marvel snapped. “That’s not fair. You didn’t know my mother or her life.”
“Knew your mother I did,” cackled Yodal. “Knew her well!”
“I don’t believe it.”
Yodal drew himself up, declaring, “Knew your mother I did—your father, I am!”
“That’s impossible!” Marvel shouted. He spun away from Yodal, snarling at the sky, “How did I end up here?” Realization hit him. “And now it’s impossible to leave!”
“Always the impossible is with you,” Yodal observed.
Marvel whirled to face the mystic.
“Oh, I’m sorry but it’s impossible for me to get off this hellhole planet!”
“Hellhole?” queried Yodal. “My home this is!”
Marvel turned away in disgust but Yodal trotted around to face him.
“To me look, my son,” said the mystic.
Rolling his eyes, Marvel set his jaw and looked down. He saw the mischievous light in Yodal’s orange eyes. A wave of remorse swept over him for a moment though he could not say why. The remorse was followed by another realization.
“You’re testing me, aren’t you?” he blurted.
“The greatest test is life, yes, hm?” returned Yodal.
Without waiting for an answer, the little mystic trotted to the edge of the swamp. Flourishing his hands, Yodal extended them over the swamp, leaning forward so far Marvel thought he might fall into the murky water. Then, to Marvel’s everlasting astonishment, his ship began to lift out of the water. The ship lifted free of the surface with water streaming from a score of orifices. Then Yodal flipped over to stand on one hand, the other outstretched, legs akimbo. The ship turned its nose toward the shore. The mystic flipped upright, landing on one toe, his arms spread wide. In answer, the ship sailed through the air while Marvel stared, his mouth gaping.
The nose of the ship had nearly reached the shore when Yodal cried, “Butterflies!”
The ship plunged into the water, sending a wave in all directions. Marvel was knocked over by the wave. The water rushed back into the swamp as Marvel scrambled to his feet, looking for Yodal. The little mystic was gone. Frantically, he whirled looking into the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of green skin.
His search was interrupted by the mystic’s croaking chuckle.
Whirling, he looked into a nearby tree to find Yodal sitting in a high crotch. The mystic was happily munching on something he was peeling off the tree’s trunk. A piece of wet weed was drooped over his left ear. Meeting his gaze, Yodal grinned cheerfully.
“What happened?” Marvel asked, gesturing toward the completely sunken ship.
“Butterflies,” Yodal explained. “The best fungi, they find. Follow them whenever they appear, one must.” His orange eyes closed in bliss as he slipped another wad of fungus into his mouth.
“But what about my ship?”
“Your ship it is,” Yodal replied, opening his eyes. He chewed a moment before adding, “Your ship why did you not catch?”
His mouth working, Marvel could find nothing to say. How could one reason with a madman? Or a mad…mystic? It was beyond him. Turning away, he was surprised when Yodal came alongside him.
“To my home we go,” Yodal told him. “A meal my wife will have for us.”
“Your wife?” Marvel replied stupidly. “I thought you lived alone.”
Grinning, Yodal nodded, saying, “A fine wife, she is, heh!” The grin faded. Yodal glanced around and leaned close, murmuring, “For the pan, the wise are wary.”
“Right,” Marvel said, fully convinced he could not be surprised anymore by this lunatic.
Yodal led him into the grove of trees where Marvel had first seen him. He expected another five or six hours walking through the swamp. But such was not the case, for Yodal led him directly to a massive tree. Around the tree they walked. And then again. For a third time, they went around the tree. Marvel made up his mind to stop when Yodal breathed a sigh of relief.
As Marvel frowned, Yodal touched the tree trunk and a door appeared, opening to reveal a softly lit stairway leading down into the tree’s roots. The little mystic entered, waving for him to follow. His relief was short-lived. He was able to make it precisely four steps down the little stairway before his over-sized body ground to a stop in the miniature stairwell. When he tried to back out, he found himself really stuck. Suddenly claustrophobic, panic welled up in him but he fought it down. After all, Yodal could get him out—if no butterflies showed up.
Ahead of him, he heard voices. He called for Yodal but heard no response. Frustration filled him and he shoved his body forward. He slid forward. Fighting his way through the narrow passage, he slowly slid headfirst down the stairs until he could see into the living space.
“Ah!” exclaimed Yodal. “Arrived the guest has! Come in, young one, come in.”
As Marvel fought his way into the house, Yodal trotted over. The little green mystic grabbed his ears and pulled. Marvel gritted his teeth and then shouted, “Let go!”
Yodal let go and Marvel’s head swung down, smashing into the floor. Whining in fury, Marvel wriggled until he got his arms free and pulled himself into the little room. He got to his feet, feeling his nose, and hit his head on the low ceiling.
“Low is the ceiling,” Yodal remarked, already waving for him to follow through a door.
“No, really?” Marvel snarled. “Do I have to be born through this door too?”
Yodal laughed his wild, bone-chilling cackle.
Getting through the door proved no trouble and Marvel got to his feet, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.
“My wife, Gertel, this is,” Yodal told him, gesturing.
Marvel’s mouth fell open as his gaze landed on a full-sized Hutt.
“Beautiful is she not?” continued Yodal, his tone dreamlike.
“Uh…” Marvel blinked, trying to see how the tiny Yodal and this monstrosity—it defied a lot more than logic. “Stunning is what I thought,” he rallied. He worked up a smile as Gertel opened her massive mouth in a toothless grin.
“Me chooga hukhuk naka,” said the Hutt.
“Very handsome, she says you are,” Yodal translated helpfully.
“Oh…er…thanks.” Marvel was not sure how to take that. Hutts and he had never gotten along. He wondered how the Hutt had gotten down the stairs.
Gertel’s golden eyes were gleaming at him in a way he did not like, so he turned his head to look at Yodal. The little mystic gazed up at him. Then Yodal wagged a finger at him, saying, “Your limits you must know, young one.”
Marvel blinked and nodded though he was thoroughly confused.
“Snaffle glump brome vak wikywax,” Gertel said, motioning for Marvel to sit. Except there were no chairs. Marvel checked around to make sure, seeing incongruous stacks of frying pans beside the Hutt.
“Where, I know not,” Yodal told the Hutt.
Just then, a tall, slender blonde bombshell glided into the room. Her eyes were pale blue like Hothan ice and her skin flawless bronze. Clad in a flowing white gown, she appeared like an angel—or a well-born Corellian.
Marvel’s mouth fell open as the young woman entered. His breathing stopped when she looked at him. When she smiled curiously at him, his heart nosedived into his stomach, spraying the inside of his torso with bile. An aching sweat broke out over his entire body, mingled with embarrassment at his sodden appearance.
“Greetings,” said the woman.
Marvel’s mouth worked but nothing came out. Mortified, he tried again. Again, nothing came forth. In desperation, he threw his entire will into moving his mouth.
“Gak!” he choked. “Hi!”
“Daughter of Gertel and mine, this is,” Yodal told him.
“What?” he hissed at his host. His gaze went from the woman’s perfect figure to Gertel’s mass. “How is that poss—?” He shut up, hoping the woman had not heard him.
“Lashen is my name,” said the blonde.
“My Marv is name,” he replied, proud to be able to speak again. Shock filled him. “I mean, Marv name is my Skywalker. I mean—”
“Glad to meet you, Marvel Skywalker, I am,” Lashen told him, gravely.
“Yeah…the same here,” he panted. It was a workout talking to these people.
“Eaten, have you?” Lashen asked, looking at Yodal.
“Eaten we have not!” Yodal shouted, leaping into the air.
Lashen smiled, sending Marvel’s heart for another plunge, and said, “Just ready is supper, Father. And here shall I bring your food, Mother?”
To Marvel, it seemed just wrong for a galactic beauty like Lashen to call Yodal, Father, and somehow sacrilegious for her to call the gelatinous mass of Gertel, Mother. He stood there, staring after Lashen’s slender figure, until Yodal took his hand. Numbly, he allowed the orange-eyed mystic to pull him down a short hallway. The hallway led to a dining room with a long table topped with several steaming dishes. Marvel’s numbness vanished upon seeing the food. His mouth started watering even as his mind tried to remember the last time he had eaten a home-cooked meal.
Taking a chair, he tucked the napkin into his collar. He licked his lips while picked up the chopsticks from beside his plate. Yodal sat three chairs down at the head of the table. Lashen breezed through the dining room, perfectly balancing a pot—which could have held her entire body—on three fingertips. By the time she reappeared, Yodal was bouncing in his chair, eager to get started. Lashen trailed a soothing hand over his ear as she passed and came to sit across from Marvel.
“Grace!” Yodal yelled and his chopsticks blurred.
Lashen smiled at Marvel.
“Cultured, we are not,” she said.
“That’s fine,” he replied, staring into her pale blue eyes.
Lashen did not seem to object. In fact, she was staring back. But her expression remained serene and somewhat curious.
“Eat, you must!” Yodal ordered from the end of the table.
Without looking, Marvel began loading his plate with food. A minute of this filled his plate but he did not notice. Another minute filled his lap and the space around his plate. He would have kept going but his chopsticks were knocked from his hand. Startled, he looked to see Yodal had extending chopsticks reaching all the way from the head of the table.
“Let me help you,” Lashen said, picking a steaming bite from one of the many dishes. With her chopsticks, she extended the bite to Marvel.
Desperate for air, he inhaled as he leaned forward. The steam from his plate filled his lungs and he coughed, smearing the proffered bite over his forehead. Still coughing, he barely heard Yodal grumble, “No, no, no!”
Yodal hopped onto the table and strode to Marvel’s overloaded plate. The little mystic did not seem to mind walking through a number of heaping plates. Even more shocking, Lashen only smiled at Marvel, reaching for a second pair of chopsticks. She was suddenly eating. Her arms blurred as she ate from both hands, gulping each bite without so much as a blink between them. Then she was done, primly dabbing her perfect lips with a napkin.
“Eat only,” Yodal said, stepping onto Marvel’s plate. His tone was stern. “Breathe, do not.”
“But—”
Yodal’s shortened chopsticks blurred. Marvel found his mouth full and his nose clamped shut by Yodal’s chopsticks. The mystic’s hand pressed his chin up rhythmically, forcing him to chew. Marvel gulped and opened his mouth to gasp but another bite appeared in his mouth. Desperate, he opened his mouth wider only to have Yodal pack in more food. His hands came up to shove the little mystic away. Yodal only fixed his orange eyes on his and his hands fell limply to the sides. His sense of perseveration turned from driving Yodal away to chewing as fast as he could. Gulping, he threw himself backward and out of Yodal’s reach. He stood, drawing in a ragged gulp of air.
Flicking his chopsticks out to their full length—a meter and a half at least—Yodal whipped a pepper from near the head of the table into Marvel’s gaping mouth. A well aimed poke drove the pepper down Marvel’s throat. Gasping and clawing at his chest, Marvel groaned as the pepper slid down his esophagus.
There was a brief second of relief.
Then Marvel realized his mouth and throat felt like lava had passed over them. He stared in shock at Yodal who was murmuring how useless it was and making his way back to his seat. Marvel’s stomach erupted and his entire body twitched. Sweat ran from every pore. His stomach clenched and the pepper passed deeper into his digestive tract. His body twitched again as the pepper made into his large intestine. By the heat in his belly, Marvel’s hand followed the pepper’s path, back and forth, back and forth until it passed through his small intestine and headed south.
“Quick!” Marvel gasped and hiccoughed. “Bathroom!”
“Help not will a bath, young Marv,” Yodal sighed.
The pepper was not stopping, nor were the hiccoughs.
“Help!” Marvel shrieked at Lashen.
The gorgeous blonde pointed to one side of the dining room. Diving for the nearest door in that general direction, Marvel wriggled into the tiny room, dragging the door closed even as he yanked his pants down. He squatted over the tiny commode and the pepper reappeared. The low, throaty roar from his posterior somehow harmonized with his howling wail. It felt like he was birthing a volcanic eruption. The pulsing flow of magma seemed to last forever. Then it was over.
Marvel’s upper body hung over his knees. His chest heaved with gasps for air though it was in short supply within the tiny room. Feeling lightheaded, he looked up to find himself in a closet. He looked under him in shock to find a mopping bucket nearly filled with an indescribable mess. Gasping, he squatted over the bucket again, looking for a tissue dispenser. Panic rose when he saw none.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh no, no, no!”
The closet door opened a little. Marvel looked up to find a large orange eye peering through the crack. Several feet above it, an ice-blue eye also looked down at him. He felt like dying.
“Whoof!” Yodal yelped, slamming the door closed. “Strong in the Force is he!”
“Father!” cried Lashen as the closet door opened again.
Yodal’s tiny hand tossed a flickering object into the closet. The closet door slammed closed and the flickering object grew brighter. Marvel’s mouth opened but it was too late. The match’s tiny flame ignited the combustible air. Marvel felt a rush of heat and then nothing. The door of the closet swung open as Yodal peered at him. Lashen’s perfect face remained serene. But the open door allowed cool fresh air into the apace and he felt a strange draft on his brow and head. Heaving a sigh of relief, Marvel touched his head—and found his hair gone. His horror increased as his fingers slid to his brow to find his eyebrows gone also.
Yodal offered him a basin with a sponge with a surprisingly contrite expression.
“Clean yourself, you must,” the Jedi mystic croaked. “Presentable, make yourself.”
“My hair!” Marvel shrieked, finding his voice.
“Grow back it will,” Yodal chided, closing the door again. “Worry not.”
“My brows!” Marvel screamed at the door. Shaking with rage—or the after-affects of the pepper—Marvel braced himself against the wall and began to clean himself. It hurt. A lot. When he had finished, he emerged from the closet feeling like grass under a windstorm, shaking and lighter than usual.
Lashen approached, handing him a cool towel. Her ice-blue eyes studied him as he dabbed his brow. He had never experienced anything like this before.
“You, mother wishes to see,” Lashen said. “Intellectual stimulation she misses.”
“But…” Marvel looked at Yodal who did not seem to pay attention. “What is happening? What is this? How are you their daughter?”
“Adopted, I was,” Lashen answered, taking his hand. “And reprogrammed.”
As Marvel digested this new twist, Lashen led him into the main room where Gertel’s huge shape waited. Marvel swallowed hard as Gertel’s eyes fastened onto him. The light in those eyes seemed anything but intellectual. Gertel flicked a tiny hand and Lashen led him to stand in front of Gertel. The Hutt was even larger and more gelatinous up close. Still shaky from the abominable dinner, he glanced back, looking for a way out just as Yodal pranced into the room.
“Hmm, ennoog,” rumbled Gertel, motioning again for him to get closer. “Bekfillin omblog nuknuk, iggy nomnom nuknuk.”
“She says handsome you look,” Yodal announced. “Better is no hair.”
Marvel touched his bare forehead, his mind stalled from any real cohesive thought. Gertel motioned again. He stepped closer to Gertel, throwing another glance at Yodal.
“Mehpoon addah,” Gertel murmured.
Yodal motioned with a finger and a barrel slid across the floor. The mystic looked up at Marvel a twinkle in his orange eyes. Grinning, Yodal said, “Gertel says hungry you look, heh!”
Before Marvel could respond, one of Gertel’s little arms wrapped around Marvel’s arms and chest. The power behind the little arm was incredible as it pressed him against Gertel’s slimy chest.
“Help!” Marvel screamed in terror as he stared down Gertel’s gaping mouth.
A wild, weird, wailing yodel filled the small house. Marvel was thrown from Gertel’s embrace. Crashing into the wall across the room, he slid to the floor, his vision flickering. There was a flurry of movement and Gertel shouting. A resounding dong-dong-dong caught his attention.
Looking up, he found Lashen’s serene gaze tracing flying objects hurtling across the room. Gertel was seizing massive frying pans from the several stacks beside her and launching them at Yodal as fast as she could. With moves like a drugged martial artist, Yodal danced between and around the flying frying pans, whooping and yelling encouragement. Occasionally, the little mystic would let out another burst of his yodel, causing Marvel to cower and Gertel to throw the pans even faster. Grinning at Marvel with his orange eyes gleaming with excitement, Yodal shouted, “For concentration, very good this is!”
A frying pan hit the mystic in the face, knocking him flat.
“SHAMAR!” roared Gertel, spreading her arms wide, a pan in each hand. The Hutt began clapping the pans together in self-congratulation. The din resounded in Marvel’s head until it felt like his head would burst. In desperation, he stumbled toward the door. Squeezing through it brought him to the stairway. Without hesitating, he plunged into the passage leading to the surface. He thrashed and fought his way to the front door.
Emerging into the pouring rain, he came to his feet running. He almost immediately ran into a tree. Rebounding a couple steps, some rational part of his mind thought, That wasn’t here earlier. But he was already running toward his ship. He had nearly made it when Yodal passed him, yelling wildly.
“Let me guess,” snarled Marvel, “mushrooms again?”
Either Yodal did not hear him or did not care to hear him, for the mystic did not answer. Marvel no longer cared as a deafening bass roar filled the air all around him, shaking the ground and his body. Instead, he raced for his ship, sped by wings of terror, and Yodal leapt four meters into the air to land atop the small rising starship. The canopy was already lifting. Even as Marvel watched in disbelief, Yodal vanished into the cockpit. The canopy closed as the engines turned over. The shriek of the engines was answered by another roar.
“What?” Marvel screamed. Unable to think of anything else, he screamed, “What? WHAT?!”
The starship blasted off, knocking him to the ground. He watched as the little ship wheeled away and rocketed through the rain. His shock vanished as a leg big as a tree trunk smashed into the ground just in front of him. Coming to his feet, he bolted back toward Yodal’s tree. He found the door open and dove into the passage, squirming and writhing into the house. When he rolled into the front room, he was scooped into Gertel’s arms. Stunned, his gaping mouth was pressed to Gertel’s face as she murmured, “Chooga humma, mmmm. Chooga humma, mmmm.”