Dune

This dream business is nonsense, Farad’n thought. It was wrong of Tyek to do this without consulting me. Strange that Tyek should get religion at his age. And now it’s dreams.

Presently he heard footsteps behind him. Tyekanik’s familiar positive stride and a more dragging gait. Farad’n turned, stared at the approaching dream interpreter. The Ixian mask was a black, gauzy affair which concealed the face from the forehead to below the chin. There were no eye slits in the mask. If one were to believe the Ixian boasts, the entire mask was a single eye.

Tyekanik stopped two paces from Farad’n, but the masked old man approached to less than a pace.

“The interpreter of dreams,” Tyekanik said.

Farad’n nodded.

The masked old man coughed in a remote grunting fashion, as though trying to bring something up from his stomach.

Farad’n was acutely conscious of a sour spice smell from the old man. It emanated from the long grey robe which covered his body.

“Is that mask truly a part of your flesh?” Farad’n asked, realizing he was trying to delay the subject of dreams.

“While I wear it,” the old man said, and his voice carried a bitter twang and just a suggestion of Fremen accent. “Your dream,” he said. “Tell me.”

Farad’n shrugged. Why not? That was why Tyek had brought the old man. Or was it? Doubts gripped Farad’n and he asked: “Are you truly a practitioner of oneiromancy?”

“I have come to interpret your dream, Puissant Lord.”

Again Farad’n shrugged. This masked figure made him nervous and he glanced at Tyekanik, who remained where he had stopped, arms folded, staring at the fountain.

“Your dream, then,” the old man pressed.

Farad’n inhaled deeply, began to relate the dream. It became easier to talk as he got fully into it. He told about the water flowing upward in the well, about the worlds which were atoms dancing in his head, about the snake which transformed itself into a sandworm and exploded in a cloud of dust. Telling about the snake, he was surprised to discover, required more effort. A terrible reluctance inhibited him and this made him angry as he spoke.

The old man remained impassive as Farad’n at last fell silent. The black gauze mask moved slightly to his breathing. Farad’n waited. The silence continued.

Presently Farad’n asked: “Aren’t you going to interpret my dream?”

“I have interpreted it,” he said, his voice seeming to come from a long distance.

“Well?” Farad’n heard his own voice squeaking, telling him the tension his dream had produced.

Still the old man remained impassively silent.

“Tell me, then!” The anger was obvious in his tone.

“I said I’d interpret,” the old man said. “I did not agree to tell you my interpretation.”

Even Tyekanik was moved by this, dropping his arms into balled fists at his sides. “What?” he grated.

“I did not say I’d reveal my interpretation,” the old man said.

“You wish more pay?” Farad’n asked.

“I did not ask pay when I was brought here.” A certain cold pride in the response softened Farad’n’s anger. This was a brave old man, at any rate. He must know death could follow disobedience.

“Allow me, My Prince,” Tyekanik said as Farad’n started to speak. Then: “Will you tell us why you won’t reveal your interpretation?”

“Yes, My Lords. The dream tells me there would be no purpose in explaining these things.”

Farad’n could not contain himself. “Are you saying I already know the meaning of my dream?”

“Perhaps you do, My Lord, but that is not my gist.”

Tyekanik moved up to stand beside Farad’n. Both glared at the old man. “Explain yourself,” Tyekanik said.

“Indeed,” Farad’n said.

“If I were to speak of this dream, to explore these matters of water and dust, snakes and worms, to analyze the atoms which dance in your head as they do in mine—ahh, Puissant Lord, my words would only confuse you and you would insist upon misunderstanding.”

“Do you fear that your words might anger me?” Farad’n demanded.

“My Lord! You’re already angry.”

“Is it that you don’t trust us?” Tyekanik asked.

“That is very close to the mark, My Lord. I do not trust either of you and for the simple reason that you do not trust yourselves.”

“You walk dangerously close to the edge,” Tyekanik said. “Men have been killed for behavior less abusive than yours.”

Farad’n nodded, said: “Don’t tempt us to anger.”

“The fatal consequences of Corrino anger are well known, My Lord of Salusa Secundus,” the old man said.

Tyekanik put a restraining hand on Farad’n’s arm, asked: “Are you trying to goad us into killing you?”

Farad’n had not thought of that, felt a chill now as he considered what such behavior might mean. Was this old man who called himself Preacher . . . was he more than he appeared? What might be the consequences of his death? Martyrs could be dangerous creations.