“Have you ever been to Goygoa before?” Idaho asked.
“No.” Siona spoke in a subdued voice, as though afraid of it.
Why am I walking down this .street? Idaho wondered. Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. This woman, this Irti: What kind of a woman would bring me to Goygoa:’
The corner of a curtain on his right lifted and Idaho saw a face-the boy from the square. The curtain dropped then was flung aside to reveal a woman standing there. Idaho stared speechlessly at her face, stopped in a completed step. It was the face of a woman known only to his deepest fantasies-a soft oval with penetrating dark eyes, a full and sensuous mouth . . .
“Jessica,” he whispered.
“What did you say?” Siona asked.
Idaho could not answer. It was the face of Jessica resurrected out of a past he had believed gone forever, a genetic prank Muad’Dib’s mother recreated in new flesh.
The woman closed the curtain, leaving the memory of her features in Idaho’s mind, an after-image which he knew he could never remove. She had been older than the Jessica who had shared their dangers on Dune–age-lines beside the mouth and eyes, the body a bit more full . . .
More motherly, Idaho told himself. Then: Did I ever tell her. . . who .she resembled?
Siona tugged at his sleeve. “Do you wish to go in, to meet her?”
“No. This was a mistake.”
Idaho started to turn back the way they had come, but the door of Irti’s house was flung open. A young man emerged
and closed the door behind him, turning then to confront Idaho. Idaho guessed the youth’s age at sixteen and there was no denying the parentage-that karakul hair, the strong features. “You are the new one,” the youth said. His voice had already deepened into manhood. “Yes.” Idaho found if difficult to speak. “Why have you come?” the youth asked. “It was not my idea,” Idaho said. He found this easier to say, the words driven by resentment against Siona. The youth looked at Siona. “We have had word that my father is dead.” Siona nodded. The youth returned his attention to Idaho. “Please go away and do not return. You cause pain for my mother.” “Of course,” Idaho said. “Please apologize to the Lady Irti for this intrusion. I was brought here against my will.” “Who brought you?” “The Fish Speakers,” Idaho said. The youth nodded once, a curt movement of the head. He looked once more at Siona. “I always thought that you Fish Speakers were taught to treat your own more kindly.” With that, he turned and reentered the house, closing the door firmly behind him. Idaho turned back the way they had come, grabbing Siona’s arm as he strode away. She stumbled, then fell into step, disengaging his grasp. “He thought I was a Fish Speaker,” she said. “Of course. You have the look.” He glanced at her. “Why didn’t you tell me that Irti was a Fish Speaker?” “It didn’t seem important.” “Oh.”
“That’s how they met.” They came to the intersection with the street from the square. Idaho turned away from the square, striding briskly up to the end where the village merged into gardens and orchards. He felt insulated by shock, his awareness recoiling from too much that could not be assimilated. A low wall blocked his path. He climbed over it, heard Siona follow. Trees around them were in bloom, white flowers with orange centers where dark brown insects worked. The air was full of insect buzzing and a floral scent which reminded Idaho of jungle flowers from Caladan. He stopped when he reached the crest of a hill where he
could turn and look back down at Goygoa’s rectangular neatness. The roofs were flat and black.
Siona sat down on the thick grass of the hilltop and embraced her knees.
“That was not what you intended, was it?” Idaho asked.
She shook her head and he saw that she was close to tears. “Why do you hate him so much?” he asked.
“We have no lives of our own!”
Idaho looked down at the village. “Are there many villages like this one?”