NILU: "There is a fork in the road."
TORU: "Then, decide."
NILU: "But I am afraid."
TORU: "That is also a decision."
- THE DELPHYNE PANTOMIMES
"Enter, Reverend Mother," said the custodian as she opened the door. The small, middle-age woman hesitated at the doorstep of the dilapidated botanical station and bowed briefly, with a surprised look on her face: "Those you are not lost will be found. So it is true, you have come back."
Sheeana gazed at the sand dune that threatened to engulf the station. It was not the terracotta-colored erg of Chapterhouse nor the amber dunes of Rakis; only timid umber dunes that encroached upon woods of madrona trees. She felt at home nevertheless.
From inside the building, many eyes looked curiously at the Reverend Mother and her party. The smell of curdled milk wafted out through the opening. Deep shadows ran under the Sister's eyes, their lips cracked and dry, their hair disheveled due to the long march; their clothing impregnated with dirt and sweat. Still, the squatters bowed deeply before their black abas.
"By the holy Sheeana! We did not expect the Sayyadina's women to come back." There were children peeping at them behind grownups' legs. Then the custodian dropped to her knees, like lightning-struck. "It is the Holy Sheeana," she whispered, this time not an invocation to a heaven-abiding deity but the electrifying revelation of being in the sacred presence.
Despite the loud wails and the indignation, Sheeana elected to spend their first night in an abandoned tent at the shepherd village that had grown nearby, lest they cause inconvenience to the extended family that had already colonized the building.
"A good likeness," said Walli the next morning as they aired their bodies out in the dry pasture just outside the tent. Futile was their attempt to get rid of the smell of the tent's cow leather which had stuck to hair and clothes.
"The Sayyadina's doing, surely," Sheeana sneered.
"It is a very nice portrait she hung in there."
"My image is affixed in every tent. Altars and votive niches with candles ambush me in every corner of the village." Her eyes raged with a burning spite.
"What do you expect? Rakis priests and our Sisters have spread it all over the Scattering." How many times must they go through this discussion? "Nobody asked you to don that mantle, Sheeana."
"Except that imaginable, dreadful accidents follow me when I do, and when I don't. I feel it in my gut."
Walli was lost in thought.
"What is it, Walli?"
"Stuck in the middle. You don't like to be worshiped; you don't avoid it either."
"Looking into our Mothers inside for advice?"
"You know it's pointless, Sheeana. Once a Reverend Mother, always a Reverend Mother. They only speak of Bene Gesserit responsibility".
"Sister," Walli continued after a pause, "may that I could share with you your burden."
"I share it already with Shaitan. Do not wish for what would destroy you."
The custodian waved a hand from afar, approached them and bowed hurriedly. "The burning eyes of the goddess," she muttered to herself. Somehow the fear in her voice melted away Sheeana's fury.
"How long ago did the Sayyadina bid you to guard the station?
"Over two decades ago, Holy Sheena."
"And we find you still here."
"The Sayyadina never mentioned that Reverend Mothers would have come back; nor that the holy Sheeana were to stop by this insignificant village. We are blessed."
"Why did they leave you here to keep a botanical station that no longer functions?"
"Alma - that is my name - follows the Sayyadina's lesson."
"Which ones?"
"She said once, beware half-baked commitments for they cause full-on cataclysms. Now, with your permission, the goats need looking after." The woman smiled timidly, bowed to the holy presence, and went about to her errands. A practical mind.
"Wait," Sheeana interrupted her. The woman froze on her tracks.
"Yes, Holy Sheeana?"
"Drop the 'holy'. You will only call me Reverend Mother."
"Yes, Hol... Reverend Mother."
"Second, I wish to help you with your tasks today."
"But I..." replied the woman, more confused than afraid.
"It's alnadam," she said using the ancient Missionaria word for penance. The holy person's submerging of her pride as a cleansing act of self-abasement.
"Fierce like the hawk, humble as the mouse. So the prophecy said. As you wish, Reverend Mother."
Sheeana followed her meekly. Thank you Francis of Assis for showing me the way, Sheeana thought. And blissfully uneventful was Sheeana's day, a reassuring emptiness lived through the peasants' busy life. She helped the custodian with milking goats and cows, moving manure, feeding chickens and seeding garden vegetables. She crushed sesame seeds into a paste while the woman boiled a stew in a large cauldron to feed her extended family. She weaved dry reeds into primitive baskets to be dried in the afternoon air. She smiled at how the inside of the station had been transformed into a home for fifteen with where cats roamed freely. She helped the mothers take care of their young. The afternoon slipped away and before she knew it, it was almost sunset. She thanked Alma and made to leave.
"My lady, can you please hold these before you go," replied the custodian while putting in her hands a dozen or so cloth handkerchiefs. Sheeana touched briefly the coarse fabric, looking at the geometric patterns that were already old when the European Renaissance was new.
"What are they for?" but Alma had already snatched them back with some excuse.
Sheeana walked out to see the desert sunset, fearing it was too late. She followed the trail leading through the sagebrush and down into the wide sand basin as the last light of the day went out. Realization came. Cloth the holy Sheeana herself had touched, sold to the faithful as a prized relic. Stars like sparks watched from above, the immense universe that her Sisters wanted her to command. Somewhere above was their Ixian no-ship, their trojan horse to the Scattering. The moisture in the air told her this desert was not the roving furnace that had been Rakis. Soil crust showed bacteria activity. A howl went up not too far. A living desert, but not a dry one. If only she could build a windtrap big enough for a planet. She needed a desert like a rag wrung completely dry. The evening was mild, and she was running hot. Far from strangers' eyes, under a dome of cobalt blue she took off her black aba, the saffron undervest, she kicked off the sandals to the side. Stripped of all vestiges of civilization, she let the wind purify her body, opening her arms wide to touch the spirit of the desert with eyes closed. With feet burrowed in the cold sand she turned her body to listening, in complete abandonment. She drank from her water flask, let it land hard on the sand and tip over, spilling the gurgling liquid.
See Reverend Mothers, how much you have truly domesticated me.
The star-studded sky watched her silently for a long time.
She awoke from her trance with a sense of urgency. Something smelled wrong. A salty scent, like putrified meat? And what was that sound? Not the noise of wind-scattered sand, not the flapping of the crow taking off from a branch nearby. Not the sleepy crickets. A prickly sensation crawling on her skin, Sheeana decided it was too cold for running around like a wild animal. The full moon had risen, inundating the basin of silvery light. She turned around, still naked, to fetch her clothing, suddenly aware of two yellow circles tracking her movements.
The black silhouette of a four-legged creature stood on a rock not ten yards away, facing the bush, the animal's tail lifted back and cat-like ears arching back.
Well, speaking of wild animals.
Following her ancestral memories, Sheeana made herself more conspicuous, extending her arms. She tried to shout the animal away.
The black silhouette did not flinch, and did not move.
Sheeana had left her knife, a blade not dissimilar from the crysknives of old, near her sandals a few feet away. The blade was to that animal a small claw in the fight that was about to ensue. Her heart raced. Siona had been a great runner, but Siona's blood notwithstanding she could not outrun a big cat on open sand. Nor win in the struggle. Scream until somebody hears you, and fetch your sandals and knife.
"Go away, cat!"
In response, the creature strolled down from the rock it was perched on, to only a few steps away, half startled and half curious.
Sheeana's mind scrambled for purchase in the slippery sea of Other Memory, sifting, looking for clues. A voice ordered from above: "Dreko, hold!"
The animal froze at the command. "Dreko, here," added the voice, unhurried.
Another shadow cleaved itself from the blackness of the starry night, revealing a caped man with a hat, a hand on the brim, moving fluidly among the dunes Sheeana's bare feet were in. Something in his gait hinted at the extra weight he was carrying at belt's height, to his right. Possibly a weapon. Sheeana, still without clothing but now facing sideways, her feet touching the ground, searching for the blade. The beast, as large as a panther of the old days, trotted back up toward its owner.
"Wildcats don't have masters," she said aloud, hoping to distract the stranger long enough to retrieve her blade.
"This one does," was the man's quiet answer, still thirty paces away. He paused to pet the cat, one hand open in front of its muzzle.
"Run out of food and it may eat you one day," she prophesied.
"Hard to rule it out." Maybe we have a talker here. A clue.
"A tamer must adopt the predator's mind," she poked.
"Death goes one way to the other," he replied. Something in his voice reassured her this man and death were good companions.
By now Sheeana had set her foot firmly on the knife, its handle between toe and finger.
"Move not, or you are dead," warned the cat's owner.
She froze and relaxed, all senses ready. The man had not talked enough for her to extract a pattern, but the full power of her Voice would reach him in a moment nevertheless. How the cat would react, she could not anticipate.
"I am the only one holding back my feline friend. He is hungry and trained on you. Best not to try the unexpected."
Damn.
"May I talk?" she inquired.
"Softly," the man nodded.
A talker indeed. By now the girls will have noticed my absence. Given all the terrible things people have done for me, why isn't a band of fanatics showing up to help me right now?
"Who are you, cat-owner?" she asked with a soothing voice.
"Cat-friend. Cats like this have no owners. I am a seeker. Right now I am seeking wanted people."
"In this desert?"
"If that's where they hide."
Sheeana wished the man had stepped out of the circle of trees that kept him in the shadow of the moonlight, so as to reveal the weapon aimed at her. Maula pistols could be evaded at that distance, but lasguns not so much.
Get closer to him.
"You are whispering, cat-friend," she murmured.
"Loud sounds can drive this creature mad."
Sheeana reminded herself there was still a small margin for maneuvering. A village was nearby and she was a Reverend Mother, formidable and Voice-trained and with the talents of her naked body.
"Then let me come to you," she offered.
"Five steps only, move slowly, speak softly." So he is a talker indeed. As the full moon came in and out from behind the clouds, Sheeana stepped right in the silvery light, letting the light shine on her brown and soft body. A body countless lovers had caressed and received joy from. All the women inside her memory agreed on the path out of there. Seduction.
"Whoever you are looking for, bounty hunter," she continued, adding just a hint of awe to her voice, "I am not worthy of your attention." She delivered this in a soft, seductive singsong, hinting at exactly the opposite. Then she turned sideways slowly and deliberately, feigning modesty and yet bringing a hand up her breasts to outline the shape of her body while keeping her lips moist, her eyes staring directly (she thought) at the dark figure a few paces away. "Please let me go," she added while her face implored the opposite, "I am alone and defenseless. I have nothing to give you."
She was certain to have the man's full attention now. I am speaking the body language built in our species since the dawn of time, and there is only one way this can go. Where is Walli?
There he approaches. She let her heart race, her face flushed, and readied her muscles to jump. The man made to close the gap between them, but, damn!, stopped short of a few paces just outside of her reach, his face hat-covered, his voice deep and factual.
"Every corner of Delphyne displays a hologram of you."
"I beg for your mercy!"
"Others are coming for you. You made giant ripples. Left your guard wide open."
"Wide open," she admitted. Just the hint of a moan, thought the Reverend Mother. Trigger him.
"Your little escapade has gone on too long,"
"Yes."
"Then, Sheeana, are you coming back?" The inflections suddenly took on a familiar tone.
She froze, confused.
"... Duncan?" The air of seduction around her evaporated in the desert air.
"We need you back, Sheeana." The man took his hat off and stepped out into the light, revealing the millennial face of the Atreides warrior, dressed like a wary traveler.
"Duncan, here?" There she stood, naked and cold in the open desert, suddenly feeling ashamed.
"You are a wanted person on this planet because of the riots in Lat."
"Miles' doing?"
"Our new business partners'. Miles did not have the time to find you, so he sent me. You are wanted. Alive, but still wanted..." he showed a holo-flyer with her face on it. "Ten thousand solaris for any information leading to the capture of the Dancer. "Am I wanted for sedition?"
"It seems that people who see you dance can't take their eyes off you."
"It was an accident."
"I have followed all your recent accidents. I traced your path through every town and village - a riot in Lat, an animal sacrifice in Bejul, a peasant revolt prominently featuring body parts in Heressa, and that brings us... to an abandoned ecological station where you have set up camp with a commune of Missionaria instructed disciples which in time will chant your name and who knows what else, maybe practice self-harm. Don't you see how you push people into madness? How long before somebody immolates himself in your name? Or sacrifice their newborns to you?"
The words lashed at her like whips. She sat on the ground, shedding real tears for the first time in years. "I cannot help it! I have no control on the effect I have on people around me."
"Your self-hatred projects out in the world."
"What do I do!"
"Come back with me."
"And never get out of the ship again for fear of hurting people with my subconscious?"
"You can try to love yourself again."
"That's your Mentat's projection? You can do better!"
"I could never see you, Sheeana, barely through the lenses of a Mentat."
And then the struggle, the ever-lasting struggle overpowered her and a force inside her gripped her tightly, surging up like with momentum, only to break into uncontrollable sobs. She cried and cried and cried, pent up sobs exploding with unconsolable fury, a wild, uncontrollable, at times inhuman cry that left her body trembling. The wildcat snarled and ran away frightened, watching them from afar as Sheeana found herself in Duncan's arms, and cried like a rainstorm, like a raging howl, and then, slowly, slowly, it all melted away. She lifted her gaze only to notice the aba he had wrapped around her. A warm wind arose almost on cue.
"See, the desert itself wants to dry your tears," he said, looking into her eyes gently. It dawned on her he had never looked at her in that kind, knowing way.
And for the first time that day, she smiled.
"Duncan?" she asked then.
Other sensations were intruding, uninvited - the ever present, physical force of their body's smells warming up the air around them like perfume. Until she had never known she could crave for a fragrance, and the skin that created it.
"Yes?" he replied hesitantly.
"Turn around."
After she had dressed and fastened her blade at her hip, she continued: "I don't trust your cat."
"You shouldn't, not yet. Dreko!" he whistled.
With panther-like elegance, the wild creature trotted toward them, seeking Duncan's hand for a pat. "When eat, Handler?" it said.
The obvious dawned on Sheeana: "A Futar."
"It can get very lonely, up in the no-ship."
"Do they respond to your training?"
Duncan paused to take away from his belt bag a foul-smelling piece of meat. "With a full belly, they are less unpredictable."
"Dreko happy. Rest." The cat, an unmissable intelligent expression on his face, sat down.
"You could have given him food just a moment ago, and avoided risking my life!"
"He is not a good hunter on a full stomach. How do you think I could track you down out here, covering thirty miles a day? They are formidable trackers."
Duncan, the panther tamer. For a moment Sheeana pictured him with the old Terra's circus costume, giggled lightly. "But do you trust them?" she asked.
"No! We don't have a two-way bond yet. But Futars need handling. Or so they say."
"When did you feel safe enough to risk taking him out of the cage?"
"I don't. But I had to reach you. But do not be rude with my friend. Dreko, meet Sheeana, the owner of the smell you were tracking. Sheeana, meet Dreko." The two exchanged glances.
"How did you really find me, Duncan? Did you see this moment?" Sensing the reference to prescient seeing, Duncan shook his head.
"And speaking of cages..." she continued, running her fingers up his sleeve and pitching his skin hard.
"What was that for!"
"You truly are out of the no-ship? How come?"
"Maybe I needed fresh air."
"Stop mocking a Reverend Mother!"
"I reserve the right," replied Duncan. "I have come to the conclusion that there is no hiding. Miles agrees. It's a story that needs telling, but later."
"You will tell me back at the village. Let's go." She stood up, ready to march through that world and onto another.
"No. We leave tonight, Sheeana."
"Right! Help me fetch my sandals."
In that moment the moonlight decided to play tricks with Duncan's vision. Instead of Sheeana, he saw Tiamat, the giant she-serpent and world-eatress. The image vanished as he blinked.
And so Sheeana walked softly down in the direction of the basin with Duncan's heavy gait trailing her, while the moon once again chose to hide behind the heavy clouds. They explored the dark sand feeling for her sandals. Duncan found the first, slipped it on her foot like Cinderella.
"Duncan!" She made a little cry of surprise.
"Did you find the other?"
"The sand is dry!"
"How odd, in a desert."
"You don't understand! I leaked water here a moment ago. On my sandals!"
"And?"
Hands pushing sand. Another muffled cry.
"Give me your hand."
"It is not the moment to play, Sheeana!"
"Give it to me!"
He extended a hand, waiting in the dark. Sheeana dropped something in his palm, something rough which felt like the sole of a shoe, but flexible like a membrane.
"Duncan," Sheeana whispered, her voice a whisper of revelation, "Have you ever felt sandtrout on your skin?" The little leech-like creature was fluttering like a slimy butterfly.
"How come..."
"The Sayyadina transplanted the sandtrouts decades ago. She thought they all perished!" was Sheeana's muffled cry.
"Let's try it." Following the Fremen custom from centuries before, she beat the sandtrout, now untold light-years away from its birthplace, against a stone until it shaped itself in a long tube; and their thirsty mouths shared the sweet water syrup that in the Age of Sandworms had saved many a sandrider's life.
A demanding memory bid for attention, and Duncan murmured words long ago forgotten:
"And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
Her flashing eyes, her floating hair!
Weave a circle round her thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For she on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise."