The thing dated from a time so ancient that only rare remnants such as this painting remained to send a physical impression down the ages. She had tried to imagine the journeys that painting had taken, the serial chance that had brought it intact to Taraza's room.
The Ixians had been at their best in the preservation and restoration. An observer could touch a dark spot on the lower left corner of the frame. Immediately, you were engulfed in the true genius, not only of the artist, but of the Ixian who had restored and preserved the work. His name was there on the frame: Martin Buro. When touched by the human finger, the dot became a sense projector, a benign spin-off of the technology that had produced the Ixian Probe. Buro had restored not only the painting but the painter - Van Gogh's feeling - accompaniment to each brush stroke. All had been captured in the brush strokes, recorded there by human movements.
Odrade had stood there engrossed through the whole performance so many times she felt she could recreate the painting independently.
Recalling this experience so near to Teg's accusation, she knew at once why her memory had reproduced the image for her, why that painting still fascinated her. For the brief space of that replay she always felt totally human, aware of the cottages as places where real people dwelled, aware in some complete way of the living chain that had paused there in the person of the mad Vincent Van Gogh, paused to record itself.
Taraza and Lucilla stopped about two paces from Teg and Odrade. There was a smell of garlic on Taraza's breath.
'We stopped for a small bite to eat,' Taraza said. 'Would you like anything?'
It was exactly the wrong question. Odrade freed her hand from Teg's arm. She turned quickly and wiped her eyes on her cuff. Looking up once more at Teg, she saw surprise on his face. Yes, she thought, those were real tears!
'I think we've done everything here that we can,' Taraza said.
'It's time you were on your way to Rakis, Dar.'
'Past time,' Odrade said.
Life cannot find reasons to sustain it, cannot be a source of decent mutual regard, unless each of us resolves to breathe such qualities into it.
- Chenoeh: 'Conversations with Leto II'
Hedley Tuek, High Priest of the Divided God, had grown increasingly angry with Stiros. Although too old himself ever to hope for the High Priest's bench, Stiros had sons, grandsons, and numerous nephews. Stiros had transferred his personal ambitions to his family. A cynical man, Stiros. He represented a powerful faction in the priesthood, the so-called 'scientific community,' whose influence was insidious and pervasive. They veered dangerously close to heresy.
Tuek reminded himself that more than one High Priest had been lost in the desert, regrettable accidents. Stiros and his faction were capable of creating such an accident.
It was afternoon in Keen and Stiros had just departed, obviously frustrated. Stiros wanted Tuek to go into the desert and personally observe Sheeana's next venture there. Suspicious of the invitation, Tuek declined.
A strange argument ensued, full of innuendo and vague references to Sheeana's behavior plus wordy attacks on the Bene Gesserit. Stiros, always suspicious of the Sisterhood, had taken an immediate dislike to the new commander of the Bene Gesserit Keep on Rakis, this... what, was her name? Oh, yes, Odrade. Odd name but then the Sisters often took odd names. That was their privilege. God Himself had never spoken against the basic goodness of the Bene Gesserit. Against individual Sisters, yes, but the Sisterhood itself had shared God's Holy Vision.
Tuek did not like the way Stiros spoke of Sheeana. Cynical. Tuek had finally silenced Stiros with pronouncements delivered here in the Sanctus with its high altar and images of the Divided God. Prismatic beam- relays cast thin wedges of brilliance through drifting incense from burning melange onto the double line of tall pillars that led up to the altar. Tuek knew his words went directly to God from this setting.
'God works through our latter-day Siona,' Tuek had told Stiros, noting the confusion on the old councillor's face. 'Sheeana is the living reminder of Siona, that human instrument who translated Him into His present Divisions.'
Stiros raged, saying things he would not dare repeat before the full Council. He presumed too much on his long association with Tuek.
'I tell you she is sitting here surrounded by adults intent upon justifying themselves to her and -'
'And to God!' Tuek could not let such words pass.
Leaning close to the High Priest, Stiros grated: 'She is at the center of an educational system geared to anything her imagination demands. We deny her nothing!'
'Nor should we.'
It was as though Tuek had not spoken. Stiros said, 'Cania has provided her with recordings from Dar-es- Balat!'
'I am the Book of Fate,' Tuek intoned, quoting God's own words from the hoard at Dar-es-Balat.
'Exactly! And she listens to every word!'
'Why does this disturb you?' Tuek asked in his calmest tone.
'We don't test her knowledge. She tests ours!'
'God must want it so.'
No mistaking the bitter anger on Stiros' face. Tuek observed this and waited while the old councillor marshaled new arguments. Resources for such arguments were, of course, enormous. Tuek did not deny this. It was the interpretations that mattered. Which was why a High Priest must be the final interpreter. Despite (or perhaps because of) their way of viewing history, the priesthood knew a great deal of how God had come to reside on Rakis. They had Dar-es-Balat itself and all of its contents - the earliest known no-chamber in the universe. For millennia, while Shai-hulud translated the verdant planet of Arrakis into desert-Rakis, Dar-es-Balat waited under the sands. From that Holy Hoard, the priesthood possessed God's own voice, His printed words and even holophotos. Everything was explained and they knew that the desert surface of Rakis reproduced the original form of the planet, the way it looked in the beginning when it was the only known source of the Holy Spice.
'She asks about God's family,' Stiros said. 'Why should she have to ask about -'
'She tests us. Do we give Them Their proper places? The Reverend Mother Jessica to her son, Muad'dib, to his son, Leto II - the Holy Triumvirate of Heaven.'
'Leto III,' Stiros muttered. 'What of the other Leto who died at Sardaukar hands? What of him?'
'Careful, Stiros,' Tuek intoned. 'You know my great-grandfather pronounced upon that question from this very bench. Our Divided God was reincarnated with part of Him remaining in heaven to mediate the Ascendancy. That part of Him became nameless then, as the True Essence of God should always be!'
'Oh?'
Tuek heard the terrible cynicism in the old man's voice. Stiros' words seemed to tremble in the incense-laden air, inviting terrible retribution.
'Then why does she ask how our Leto was transformed into the Divided God?' Stiros demanded.
Did Stiros question the Holy Metamorphosis? Tuek was aghast. He said: 'In time, she will enlighten us.'
'Our feeble explanations must fill her with dismay,' Stiros sneered.
'You go too far, Stiros!'
'Indeed? You do not think it enlightening that she asks how the sandtrout encapsulate most of Rakis' water and recreate the desert?'
Tuek tried to conceal his growing anger. Stiros did represent a powerful faction in the priesthood, but his tone and his words raised questions that had been answered by High Priests long ago. The Metamorphosis of Leto II had given birth to uncounted sandtrout, each carrying a Bit of Himself. Sandtrout to Divided God: The sequence was known and worshiped. To question this denied God.
'You sit here and do nothing!' Stiros accused. 'We are pawns of -'
'Enough!' Tuek had heard all he wanted to hear of this old man's cynicism. Drawing his dignity around him, Tuek spoke the words of God:
'Your Lord knows very well what is in your heart. Your soul suffices this day as a reckoner against you. I need no witnesses. You do not listen to your soul, but listen instead to your anger and your rage.'
