The first thing she noticed as she entered the sietch was the smell. Dry
and smelling distinctly of spice, the cinnamon smell invaded her senses
along with the scent of spices, something like saffron, she thought.
The sietch Gaurds were swarming about her in moments, and Chaysula found their stares marked not by suspicion, as she had dreaded, but curiosity.
"Who are you? From which sietch do you hail?" A tall man, corded with muscle and sinew asked, looking speculatively at her beneath heavy, sagging eyebrows.
She had not known what sietch she could say, she did not know much, and, she realized, that knowledge was ultimately her power, it was what she needed.
"I am from a sietch that is no more. it is carried on the wind, no more than rubble and sand. The great Maker has called my people back to the desert. I am all that remain. Shai Halud has his due. I wander now. I am a Mi'kiyla. It is fremen tradition that I entertain sietch after sietch. I have no home now. I live upon the sands." She announced, hoping that her eloquent words would subdue their prodding. She had always had a way with words, affluence, if you would. It had saved her many a time and she hoped her luck would hold out.
Stilgar approached her slowly. He could only be Stilgar, the deference paid to the wizened, but no less sharp old man was acute, his rulings were absolute, he had earned the respect he had, and wielded it rightly, with a clever brain, if not so sure a hand.
"I, Stilgar, Naib of Sietch Tabr say for us all, We all grieve for the loss of your home. The sand shall cover us all one day child. Come. Eat, bathe. You can entertain us with song and dance and the weaving of tales as soon as that is done, but my Wife Harah would be angry with me if I did not insist." He put a comforting arm around her back and led her gently to a matronly woman with a weathered appearance and kind eyes. "This is my wife, Harah." Stilgar introduced, handing her off with a kindly smile.
She was lead through the dimly lit tunnels to a spacious enclave, where she was sat down on some mats and quickly brought food filled with spice, a gamey meal of what she assumed was a carrion feeder, but she would take any nourishment she could get. Soon, and with great aplomb, Harah began to speak.
"Ahhh, child. It's been a great while since we had a Mi'kiyla among us. It brings back sweet memories of my childhood. I see you carry a balliset," she started, but was interrupted by fierce kitty growls from Chaysula's satchel. Harah reached in, curiosity piqued, and brought out the writhing angry ball of fur that accompanied the growls
"Ankhar!" Chaysula cried, "Behave yourself!" Her face grew heated at her slip. Chaysula was worried.
"What a gorgeous creature. Such lustrous fur. He is fierce, no?" Harah asked as she held the spitting cat from her face, out of reach of his claws.
"Yes. Simply ferocious. Or so he would have me believe." Chaysula stated with a wry grin, wrapping her arms around the cougar cub, which instantaneously became manageable, purring and snuggling like a baby.
Harah clapped her hands with a delighted laugh. "Surely you are gifted, able to tame the savage beast from rage to sweetness!"
Startled to find herself laughing with the kindly woman, she simply laughed some more.
"He's an Ivaz Cougar from Mohave Prime. That was the planet my Father fought on during the great Jihad. He paid dearly for a smuggler to bring it, and gave him to me as a present. His name is Ankhar." She said smoothly, her lie was not questioned.
"Come. The bath is drawn, and as a gift, we give you precious clothing." Harah said, helping the girl to her feet. "It is only fitting payment,"
***************************************
She felt much cleaner, in body and in spirit after her bath. It was as if she was washing away her old life. the gift of clothing was no mean thing. She wore a brilliant cerulean blue halter shirt, made of finely woven linen that fell to her knees, embroidered with desert symbols. Underneath she wore flowing, gauzy, semi-transparent pants that hugged her ankles, just as the top of the shirt was form fitting, showing off her ample curves, and from the bodice falling voluminously, cinched at the hips with a colorful scarf.
She was lead reverently into what Chaysula assumed was the center room, a mushroom shaped cavern lit by glow-globes, sending off a mysterious light that dimly reflected off the stone walls. There, what she assumed was the whole of the sietch waited, sitting, fidgeting. The eyes of the small children lit up to see the story-weaver, singer, and the dancer. Many had never had the opportunity, which afforded her with a comfortable anonymity, for no matter how off she was, they would not know what to compare her to.
She began by setting herself down, and tuning her balliset, and soon was playing a mournful tune of low, quiet notes, singing of a buried place, of a people long since forgotten by the ravages of time. She sang of their golden years, and their loves, she sang of their pride, and how it grew, until one day Shai-Halud could no longer stand for their arrogance, and how the once bright Sietch of Carrah'oha was attacked by another tribe, the rising tide of her balliset strings coming to a crescendo as she sang loudly and sadly of the storm the blew, encompassing them, burying all of what they held dear, their water only moisture in the sands.
There was few dry eyes after that song, and she decided she would change the mood a little, playing a sweet lively tune of a boy on the threshold of manhood, riding his first worm upon the open sands, finding a girl her loved, of tying his water rings in her hair. The children clapped along with the beat, and a few of the older fremen took out instruments of their own; drums, timbales, panpipes, to accompany the tune.
She laughed as she watched an aged couple begin dancing, followed shortly by more couples, young and old, and children who clapped and bobbed, trying their hand as well.
Her first evening as a Mi'kiyla was passing with ease and laughter, even once she was persuaded by the fremen to dance by herself, another taking up the balliset as she moved to staccato beats, flamboyantly turning in a proud, almost defiant way, she danced with a vibrancy that drew him from the shadows, rather than just watching, he stepped through the crowd to offer his hand. Leto saw the fire that smoldered in her eyes, and as she took the hand he offered, she smiled radiantly.
They danced. They spun, they were like fire and water, liquid and ethereal in each other's arms, the only heard the music. All else faded as they slid in a display of vibrant life and beauty that captivated their audience. Leto and Chaysula were breathing hard as the music ended, both gazing at each other half-hidden, one beneath her hair and eyelashes, and the other, Leto, casting his eyes toward her whenever he knew she wasn't looking. They parted ways then, Her, toward the children, with stories of strong men and ancient worlds, while he ambled toward his perturbed sister.
"You shouldn't have danced with her," She told him softly.
"Why not?" he questioned, staring fixedly upon the girl.
"Because you know who she is. I saw her coming. I saw her enter the sietch. You have to be wary Leto." Ghanima lectured, pleading with him.
"I was," He stated curtly.
Ghanima grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around to face her. "How? By dancing with her?"
"Yes. You can learn a lot about a person from how they dance." He told her in a clam, soothing manner. Patting her hand.
"And what did you learn?" she asked him, interested now.
"Not nearly enough," he replied.
***********************************************
Leto improvised getting closer to the Mi'kiyla by way of meandering around, pretending to be interested in the ending of a children's story, settling himself down on her side. The children were soon taken to sleep, and they were left alone for some time, before he began to put his plan into action.
Leto allowed his gaze to wander from his task, resting, not unkindly upon the Mi'kiyla.
"What's your name?" he quested softly, setting down the straw he had been fiddling with. It kept him busy, and his mind occupied. At the moment though, it entertained different thoughts altogether.
There was something that beckoned to him from this girl; a melancholy sadness deep as her bones, he saw it in her eyes. But she was not made of tears and memories. This one was made of stronger stuff. She was as the fabled tiger from the poem of the antiquity of Terra Earth; fierce and raw and true, burning with the fires of unbridled passion, hammered into her very being, forged and tempered, it was the mettle of her soul.
Chaysula had forgotten to breath in her shock, her heart pounding so loudly it was a wonder the whole of the sietch didn't hear it. She quickly reclaimed her senses from her fear and improvised as best she could.
"My name is.Sula," She told him, not daring to look in the young man's eyes she felt certain he would know somehow, he would catch her lie. He had a disarming charm, and she feared her lie was writ plain on her face. She would need to be cautious with this one.
"Sula.it sounds Fremen, but it is not." He replied, his all encompassing blue-in-blue eyes boring into her.
"No. It's not. It is a name from the planet Mohave Prime. My father fought there during the great Jihad. He.Fell in love with it, you might say. He paid a smuggler to get Ankhar for me." She was Sula now, and she could never go back. She reminded herself sullenly as she smoothed the wrinkles of her skirt, hiding what she truly felt. Sula turned her head slowly sideways, peering at him from under soft, thick lashes, a curtain of her lustrous brown hair falling across her face.
Leto reached to brush it from her eyes and paused. He realized he was unsure. He licked his lips, continuing, though a lot less confident and markedly more shaky. As he pushed her abundant locks behind her ear, he allowed his thumb to trace her temple, resting softly on her cheekbone.
"What does it mean," He asked softly, barely breathing, removing his hand once he had finished speaking.
"It means Wind Walker." She told him, her heart was pounding furiously.
"Only a grain of sand may walk on the wind." He cautioned, not without care as he distanced himself from her.
"Aren't we all just grains of sand walking on the wind? It takes millions just to make one dune," Sula replied, a triumphant note in her lilting voice.
"A dune can be blown away," Leto answered pensively.
"All things blow away in time, all but the Wind." She finished succinctly, undeniably steadfast in her truth, a wisdom beyond years present in her eyes.
The sietch Gaurds were swarming about her in moments, and Chaysula found their stares marked not by suspicion, as she had dreaded, but curiosity.
"Who are you? From which sietch do you hail?" A tall man, corded with muscle and sinew asked, looking speculatively at her beneath heavy, sagging eyebrows.
She had not known what sietch she could say, she did not know much, and, she realized, that knowledge was ultimately her power, it was what she needed.
"I am from a sietch that is no more. it is carried on the wind, no more than rubble and sand. The great Maker has called my people back to the desert. I am all that remain. Shai Halud has his due. I wander now. I am a Mi'kiyla. It is fremen tradition that I entertain sietch after sietch. I have no home now. I live upon the sands." She announced, hoping that her eloquent words would subdue their prodding. She had always had a way with words, affluence, if you would. It had saved her many a time and she hoped her luck would hold out.
Stilgar approached her slowly. He could only be Stilgar, the deference paid to the wizened, but no less sharp old man was acute, his rulings were absolute, he had earned the respect he had, and wielded it rightly, with a clever brain, if not so sure a hand.
"I, Stilgar, Naib of Sietch Tabr say for us all, We all grieve for the loss of your home. The sand shall cover us all one day child. Come. Eat, bathe. You can entertain us with song and dance and the weaving of tales as soon as that is done, but my Wife Harah would be angry with me if I did not insist." He put a comforting arm around her back and led her gently to a matronly woman with a weathered appearance and kind eyes. "This is my wife, Harah." Stilgar introduced, handing her off with a kindly smile.
She was lead through the dimly lit tunnels to a spacious enclave, where she was sat down on some mats and quickly brought food filled with spice, a gamey meal of what she assumed was a carrion feeder, but she would take any nourishment she could get. Soon, and with great aplomb, Harah began to speak.
"Ahhh, child. It's been a great while since we had a Mi'kiyla among us. It brings back sweet memories of my childhood. I see you carry a balliset," she started, but was interrupted by fierce kitty growls from Chaysula's satchel. Harah reached in, curiosity piqued, and brought out the writhing angry ball of fur that accompanied the growls
"Ankhar!" Chaysula cried, "Behave yourself!" Her face grew heated at her slip. Chaysula was worried.
"What a gorgeous creature. Such lustrous fur. He is fierce, no?" Harah asked as she held the spitting cat from her face, out of reach of his claws.
"Yes. Simply ferocious. Or so he would have me believe." Chaysula stated with a wry grin, wrapping her arms around the cougar cub, which instantaneously became manageable, purring and snuggling like a baby.
Harah clapped her hands with a delighted laugh. "Surely you are gifted, able to tame the savage beast from rage to sweetness!"
Startled to find herself laughing with the kindly woman, she simply laughed some more.
"He's an Ivaz Cougar from Mohave Prime. That was the planet my Father fought on during the great Jihad. He paid dearly for a smuggler to bring it, and gave him to me as a present. His name is Ankhar." She said smoothly, her lie was not questioned.
"Come. The bath is drawn, and as a gift, we give you precious clothing." Harah said, helping the girl to her feet. "It is only fitting payment,"
***************************************
She felt much cleaner, in body and in spirit after her bath. It was as if she was washing away her old life. the gift of clothing was no mean thing. She wore a brilliant cerulean blue halter shirt, made of finely woven linen that fell to her knees, embroidered with desert symbols. Underneath she wore flowing, gauzy, semi-transparent pants that hugged her ankles, just as the top of the shirt was form fitting, showing off her ample curves, and from the bodice falling voluminously, cinched at the hips with a colorful scarf.
She was lead reverently into what Chaysula assumed was the center room, a mushroom shaped cavern lit by glow-globes, sending off a mysterious light that dimly reflected off the stone walls. There, what she assumed was the whole of the sietch waited, sitting, fidgeting. The eyes of the small children lit up to see the story-weaver, singer, and the dancer. Many had never had the opportunity, which afforded her with a comfortable anonymity, for no matter how off she was, they would not know what to compare her to.
She began by setting herself down, and tuning her balliset, and soon was playing a mournful tune of low, quiet notes, singing of a buried place, of a people long since forgotten by the ravages of time. She sang of their golden years, and their loves, she sang of their pride, and how it grew, until one day Shai-Halud could no longer stand for their arrogance, and how the once bright Sietch of Carrah'oha was attacked by another tribe, the rising tide of her balliset strings coming to a crescendo as she sang loudly and sadly of the storm the blew, encompassing them, burying all of what they held dear, their water only moisture in the sands.
There was few dry eyes after that song, and she decided she would change the mood a little, playing a sweet lively tune of a boy on the threshold of manhood, riding his first worm upon the open sands, finding a girl her loved, of tying his water rings in her hair. The children clapped along with the beat, and a few of the older fremen took out instruments of their own; drums, timbales, panpipes, to accompany the tune.
She laughed as she watched an aged couple begin dancing, followed shortly by more couples, young and old, and children who clapped and bobbed, trying their hand as well.
Her first evening as a Mi'kiyla was passing with ease and laughter, even once she was persuaded by the fremen to dance by herself, another taking up the balliset as she moved to staccato beats, flamboyantly turning in a proud, almost defiant way, she danced with a vibrancy that drew him from the shadows, rather than just watching, he stepped through the crowd to offer his hand. Leto saw the fire that smoldered in her eyes, and as she took the hand he offered, she smiled radiantly.
They danced. They spun, they were like fire and water, liquid and ethereal in each other's arms, the only heard the music. All else faded as they slid in a display of vibrant life and beauty that captivated their audience. Leto and Chaysula were breathing hard as the music ended, both gazing at each other half-hidden, one beneath her hair and eyelashes, and the other, Leto, casting his eyes toward her whenever he knew she wasn't looking. They parted ways then, Her, toward the children, with stories of strong men and ancient worlds, while he ambled toward his perturbed sister.
"You shouldn't have danced with her," She told him softly.
"Why not?" he questioned, staring fixedly upon the girl.
"Because you know who she is. I saw her coming. I saw her enter the sietch. You have to be wary Leto." Ghanima lectured, pleading with him.
"I was," He stated curtly.
Ghanima grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around to face her. "How? By dancing with her?"
"Yes. You can learn a lot about a person from how they dance." He told her in a clam, soothing manner. Patting her hand.
"And what did you learn?" she asked him, interested now.
"Not nearly enough," he replied.
***********************************************
Leto improvised getting closer to the Mi'kiyla by way of meandering around, pretending to be interested in the ending of a children's story, settling himself down on her side. The children were soon taken to sleep, and they were left alone for some time, before he began to put his plan into action.
Leto allowed his gaze to wander from his task, resting, not unkindly upon the Mi'kiyla.
"What's your name?" he quested softly, setting down the straw he had been fiddling with. It kept him busy, and his mind occupied. At the moment though, it entertained different thoughts altogether.
There was something that beckoned to him from this girl; a melancholy sadness deep as her bones, he saw it in her eyes. But she was not made of tears and memories. This one was made of stronger stuff. She was as the fabled tiger from the poem of the antiquity of Terra Earth; fierce and raw and true, burning with the fires of unbridled passion, hammered into her very being, forged and tempered, it was the mettle of her soul.
Chaysula had forgotten to breath in her shock, her heart pounding so loudly it was a wonder the whole of the sietch didn't hear it. She quickly reclaimed her senses from her fear and improvised as best she could.
"My name is.Sula," She told him, not daring to look in the young man's eyes she felt certain he would know somehow, he would catch her lie. He had a disarming charm, and she feared her lie was writ plain on her face. She would need to be cautious with this one.
"Sula.it sounds Fremen, but it is not." He replied, his all encompassing blue-in-blue eyes boring into her.
"No. It's not. It is a name from the planet Mohave Prime. My father fought there during the great Jihad. He.Fell in love with it, you might say. He paid a smuggler to get Ankhar for me." She was Sula now, and she could never go back. She reminded herself sullenly as she smoothed the wrinkles of her skirt, hiding what she truly felt. Sula turned her head slowly sideways, peering at him from under soft, thick lashes, a curtain of her lustrous brown hair falling across her face.
Leto reached to brush it from her eyes and paused. He realized he was unsure. He licked his lips, continuing, though a lot less confident and markedly more shaky. As he pushed her abundant locks behind her ear, he allowed his thumb to trace her temple, resting softly on her cheekbone.
"What does it mean," He asked softly, barely breathing, removing his hand once he had finished speaking.
"It means Wind Walker." She told him, her heart was pounding furiously.
"Only a grain of sand may walk on the wind." He cautioned, not without care as he distanced himself from her.
"Aren't we all just grains of sand walking on the wind? It takes millions just to make one dune," Sula replied, a triumphant note in her lilting voice.
"A dune can be blown away," Leto answered pensively.
"All things blow away in time, all but the Wind." She finished succinctly, undeniably steadfast in her truth, a wisdom beyond years present in her eyes.