What is your name, ghola? - They say it was Duncan Idaho. (c)
Title: “Let Him Hear”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG, I guess
Timeline: ‘Dune Messiah’
Summary: “We are both very much alike, Duncan,” Muad’Dib said. The ghola Hayt is desperate to know his past but he is also afraid of it. Just a little conversation between Muad’Dib and the ghola. Please R&R!
Disclaimer: Property of Frank Herbert. Created by Frank Herbert. How I envy Frank Herbert!!! =D
A/N: This is not a song-fic because technically the poem inserted in the text is not a song. At least not yet. So it’s more like a poem-fic. ;) My first go at Duncan (or Hayt). The name comes from the Bible quote: ‘He that hath ears to hear, let him hear!’
Special Thanx: to my friend Dune Master for helping me write the poem, “Sing, Brother!”, and telling me the guys here are relatively IC.
Dedication: Happy Birthday, my dear friend Marilena! May all your dreams come true and the winds of the holy desert carry away your sorrows. Bi-la kaifa!
LET HIM HEAR
I have been a stranger in a strange land.
Exodus, 2: 22
There were nights when the ghola’s metallic eyes burnt as he tried in vain to get some sleep, lost in the maze of his own thoughts. He reminisced about the life he had led before his death and he had only to imagine this life for he knew nothing of his past - except for a name.
They said it was Duncan Idaho.
So Duncan Idaho, he knew he should never be called again for that name meant death to those he had come to love during his brief stay in the palace of Arrakeen. The ghola Hayt sensed the threat sharply. It taunted him with its vague familiarity. He had forgotten something he should have always remembered. Yet he could not.
Hayt couldn’t bear to lie in bed in his quarters, doing nothing. He dressed and took a walk through the halls of the palace. They were empty and quiet, the kind of mystic stillness erupted only by Hayt’s barely audible footsteps. Hectic thoughts raced through the ghola’s mind.
Placed within the grand keep of Arrakeen by the will of the Bene Tleilax, he had come to harbour a tender, shy affection for the land run by the legend of a man, Muad’Dib, someone he had known before but could not recall. The very sands of Arrakis were also familiar.
Hayt peered at the desert that lay outside, silvery in the light of the pallid moon. He could feel the scorching sun of Dune pour over him in a flood, lemon drops of sunlight playing in his hair, twinkling in his eye, blinding him temporarily. But these were memories of long ago, of the past he had no right to reflect on. The very first time the ghola set foot on Dune, the coldness of the axolotl tank had been washed away.
Hayt did not dare go out alone, though in his heart he could feel a whirlwind of strange emotions stir when he looked upon the desert.
“Don’t gholas need to sleep?”
Hayt looked around, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. They always did when he let his ghola mask slip back on to hide surprise beneath neutrality. The Emperor was standing in the doorway a few feet away from him. Garbed in plain tunic, his hands folded over his chest, Muad’Dib looked ghostly and surreal in the bluish glow of the night.
Hayt gave a courteous bow.
“Do prophets not?”
“I’d rather you think of me as a man, Duncan, not as a god dressed in terrifying, yet predictable myths.” The Emperor smiled sadly. A net of wrinkles encircled his lips. Hayt marveled at how different the man looked outside the throne room. Tired, yes… but more relaxed, at peace with himself. If there still was peace for Muad’Dib. “I’d strip myself of all the legends if only I could.”
The beauty of the land remains unspoilt
Like sandstorms whirling through the ages.
The sere sunrise leaks with orange moisture.
Come sing for me, my Fremen brother!
Hayt came closer and looked straight into the blackened eyes of the Messiah, scorched out by the Stone Burner. Those expressionless eyes held his gaze steadily; Hayt could only guess what hurricane of passions lurked beneath Muad’Dib’s calm façade.
“We are both very much alike,” Muad’Dib said, smiling. “I have no eyes; you have that accursed Tleilaxu instrument to help you see. You, like me, are not sure who you are or who you want to be. You function mechanically, hoping that the very process of carrying out your duties will sustain you long enough to kick those unwanted emotions out of your heart.”
“Your Majesty is very wise.”
“Call me by my name, Duncan.”
The ghola cast his eyes down, mulling over the reply. The name, Duncan, brought undesirable harmony, yet it frightened him. Of all the feelings fear was what he resented most, but now he welcomed it for it was the only thing that held him on the edge of the cliff, not letting him fall.
“Use mine as well, sire.”
“That is what I do.”
Muad’Dib lowered himself on the settee by the window. The curtains moved, touched by the breath of a gentle wind. The rings of the lintel jingled softly.
“Come walk with me into the desert,” Muad’Dib suggested. “Stilgar fears for me but this time I shall not be alone.”
The world has turned and turned again,
The sun has set and risen.
Dream, dream of the water that would drown all the fears!
Come sing with me, my Fremen brother!
Sunrise was at hand. They covered their heads with hoods and set out into the city, two faceless pilgrims running from the night.
On the outskirts of Arrakeen they came to a halt. The city was waking up to the shouts of the traders and the morning prayers at the Quizarate. Muad’Dib dipped his hand into the sand, raised it and opened his fist: bright golden dust flowed through his fingers. Hayt waited behind, unwilling to disturb the Emperor.
“Ask me your questions. I have no intention to keep my old-time friend in the dark.”
Hayt shuddered. Muad’Dib needed no eyesight to see clearly into the souls of men.
“What are we doing here?”
The question was irrelevant; those most loyal to Muad’Dib knew of his lonely walkabouts on the capital city of the planet. What mattered is why this time Muad’Dib called Hayt to come along.
“We are enjoying what time we still have left. It isn’t too much, unfortunately.”
“Your world is devouring itself, sire,” Hayt whispered. Where had that painstaking honesty come from?
“It is not what frightens me.”
The sunrise streamed down Muad'Dib’s handsome face, painted his skin in various colours from ghostly white to juicy purple. The sky disrobed of its black starry velvet and dressed in the most tender azure silk.
His name was Paul. Last time Duncan saw him he was fifteen, curious and troubled by the conflict between his ancestral home and the ruthless House Harkonnen. And then he was a fighter who’d never have turned his back on the door. He was the son of the Bene Gesserit witch whom Duncan respected and feared. He was the heir to the Atreides wisdom going back generations to Agamemnon and the legendary kings of Earth.
Hayt had read all the books by His Majesty’s wife, all the official and unofficial biographies of the glorified man. But he could not understand him beyond the image of a fifteen-year-old orphaned Duke.
That portrait was so vivid that Hayt could not stop staring at the man before him until the black lifeless eyes turned to regard him once more.
Empires of the Tyrants live and fall,
Ground into oblivion by earthly passions.
Through their prayers they shall take their Idol down.
Come mourn with me, my Fremen brother!
“I’m different,” the ghola said. “Listen to Stilgar if you wouldn’t listen to me. Duncan Idaho is dead.”
“You’re a piece of mosaic ripped out of your tapestry, thrown forward in time. But there’s a place for you here, Duncan.”
“I’m not-.”
“I know why you are afraid, Duncan. I can see the mission the Tleilaxu have imparted on you as clearly as you can see me standing before you. Is what you see too different from what there is? You don’t look upon a myth, but upon a man with his own needs and desires. Do you think I’m looking upon a soulless replica of a man that I used to hold dear to my heart? Or am I looking at that man?”
A smile flared, perfectly conspicuous in the corner of Muad'Dib’s lips. Feeling he was losing his nerve, Hayt whispered:
“I’m a mentat. Duncan Idaho was not a mentat.”
The Emperor shrugged. There was too much of Paul in him now. “Consider this an improvement.”
Hayt was silent. He sat down on the sand hillock next to Paul and contemplated the sky, smoky and blue with patches of orange, dark copper stains upon the gentle silk.
“I want to end your suffering, young master,” Hayt whispered.
His lips froze; the final word died away. ‘Young master’ - that’s what Idaho used to call Paul Atreides. The words felt strange; Hayt tasted them like a lollypop on his tongue, and their bittersweet flavour enticed him. Muad'Dib’s face looked serene, almost joyous; no doubt he was also pondering the address.
“I don’t want your moon to fall,” the ghola went on.
The Emperor snorted bitterly. “My moon has already fallen. It fell the moment I took this path. Can’t you hear the wind weeping for her?”
Hayt listened, straining his hearing, but he heard nothing. Only indistinct outcries in the city as the pilgrims marched towards the holy places.
Sing, my Fremen brother, of the Holy Man.
Sing, my Fremen brother, sing while you still can.
Muad'Dib, forever alive, forever wise,
forever bound by his premonitions!
Muad'Dib, the holy warrior and the sacred captive!
Muad'Dib has delivered us from pain and ignorance.
Sing glory to Muad'Dib, my brother,
For you have no memory of the desert.
“Duncan… Duncan… Do not dwell on these bitter thoughts. There is nothing you can do to change what I’ve predicted.”
“That’s no consolation,” the ghola smirked and suddenly felt the touch of Idaho in him, so vivid, so realistic that he was ready to believe the man was really there.
“Where is your stubborn zensunni conviction?”
Hayt gave no reply. Suddenly all his aspirations were reduced to prejudiced fears; he had been driven by desire to learn more of his past and he had come to despise it. All he cared about was his ‘young master’ sitting not two feet away from him, hands wrapped around his knees, the image of the dying moon scorched beneath his injured eyelids.
“It’s time to go back to the desert,” Paul spoke thoughtfully. Then he turned and at looked at Hayt studiously. “It will heal your wounds, cure your sorrow and mend all that was broken. Come, Duncan.”
He rose, sand streaming down his legs, straightened his shoulders and was once again back in Muad'Dib mode. The blazing sun melted Paul’s teenage features; the royal mask slipped back in place.
“I am Hayt,” the ghola wanted to correct but kept silent.
March 15 - 25. 2007