Odrade searched it out: If it comes, we must think of Murbella as a Sister. Not that their captive Honored Matre was an incurable failure. But she was a misfit and undergoing the deep training at a very late age.
How quiet they were all around her, everyone looking out at windswept sand—whaleback dunes giving way at times to dry wavelets. Early afternoon sun had just begun to provide sufficient sidelighting to define near vistas. Dust obscured the horizon ahead.
Odrade curled up in her seat and slept. I’ve seen this before. I survived Dune.
The stir as they came down and circled over Sheeana’s Desert Watch Center awakened her.
Desert Watch Center. We’re at it again. We haven’t really named it … no more than we gave a name to this planet. Chapterhouse! What kind of a name is that? Desert Watch Center! Description, not a name. Accent on the temporary.
As they descended, she saw confirmations of her thought. The sense of temporary housing was amplified by spartan abruptness in all junctures. No softness, no rounding of any connection. This attaches here and that goes over there. All joined by removable connectors.
It was a bumpy landing, the pilot telling them that way: “Here you are and good riddance.”
Odrade went immediately to the room always set aside for her and summoned Sheeana. Temporary quarters: another spartan cubicle with hard cot. Two chairs this time. A window looked westward onto desert. The temporary nature of these rooms grated on her. Anything here could be dismantled in hours and carted away. She washed her face in the adjoining bathroom, getting the most out of movement. She had slept in a cramped position on the ‘thopter and her body complained.
Refreshed, she went out to a window, thankful that the erection crew had included this tower: ten floors, and this the ninth. Sheeana occupied the top floor, a vantage for doing what the name of the place described.
While waiting, Odrade made necessary preparations.
Open the mind. Shed preconceptions.
First impressions when Sheeana arrived must be seen with naive eyes. Ears must not be prepared for a particular voice. Nose must not expect remembered odors.
I chose this one. I, her first teacher, am susceptible to mistakes.
Odrade turned at a sound from the doorway. Streggi.
“Sheeana has just returned from the desert and is with her people. She asks Mother Superior to meet her in the upper quarters, which are more comfortable.”
Odrade nodded.
Sheeana’s quarters on the top floor still had that prefab look at the edges. Quick shelter ahead of the desert. A large room, six or seven times the size of the guest cubicle, but then it was both workroom and sleeping chamber. Windows on two sides—west and north. Odrade was struck by the mixture of functional and non-functional.
Sheeana had managed to make her rooms reflect herself. A standard Bene Gesserit cot had been covered with a bright orange and umber spread. A black-on-white line drawing of a sandworm, head-on with all of its crystal teeth displayed, filled an end wall. Sheeana had drawn it, relying on Other Memory and her Dune childhood to guide her hand.
It said something about Sheeana that she had not attempted a more ambitious rendering—full color, perhaps, and in traditional desert setting. Just the worm and a hint of sand beneath it, a tiny robed human in the foreground.
Herself?
Admirable restraint and a constant reminder of why she was here. A deep impression of nature.
Nature makes no bad art?
It was a statement too glib to accept.
What do we mean by “nature?”
She had seen atrocious natural wilderness: brittle trees looking as though they had been dipped in faulty green pigment and left on a tundra’s edge to dry into ugly parodies. Repellent. Hard to imagine such trees having any purpose. And blindworms … slimy yellow skins. Where was the art in them? Temporary stopping place on evolution’s journey elsewhere. Did the intervention of humans always make a difference ? Sligs! The Bene Tleilax had produced something disgusting there.
Admiring Sheeana’s drawing, Odrade decided certain combinations offended particular human senses. Sligs as food were delectable. Ugly combinations touched early experiences. Experiences judged.
Bad thing!
Much of what we think of as ART caters to desires for reassurance. Don’t offend me! I know what I can accept.
How did this drawing reassure Sheeana?
Sandworm: blind power guarding hidden riches. Artistry in mystic beauty.
It was reported that Sheeana joked about her assignment. “I am shepherd to worms that may never exist.”
And even if they did appear, it would be years before any achieved