MAJLISS
That first night in Sietch Tabir, Lady Jessica of the Bene Gesserit lay in the tiny room she had been offered, unable to sleep. The events of the last day replayed relentlessly in her memory. The betrayal of the House she called her own; the death of her son’s father, and the challenge that Paul had just barely survived. Had he failed to slay the warrior Jamis, another path would have opened, one far less kind. As it was, the Fremen Stilgar had welcomed them into his tribe.
Stilgar was a remarkable figure, the sort of man that the Bene Gesserit would target to gain a genetic foothold in an untamed society. Jessica had heard of his visit to Leto’s council and been impressed even then by the backbone he had exhibited, one man against the weight of Imperial dominion. The chieftain would have been an appropriate lever to force her way into Fremen society, if her duke had not just been violently killed. Not that she expected any sympathy in the sietch. Violence was a way of life to the Fremen, even more than to the Great Houses, and from the first moment she had felt Stilgar’s eyes on her, she had believed that he would accept her proposal, should she extend one. By the time she saw every possession of the man Paul had slain given to his killer, she was certain of it.
Paul was still tormented by the death of what he perceived to be an innocent man. He had yet to learn that, in war, there were no innocent men. He would need to be harder, and soon, but Jessica had offered to her son what meagre comfort she could- for no comfort could disguise that Paul was now a murderer. She pictured him laying in the living quarters of the dead man, staring at the ceiling, as sleepless as herself.
Abruptly, Jessica could no longer tolerate the silence of the room, the four close walls. She stood and pulled on her aba, that long black robe so common to the local women, woven in mysterious fibres from plants Jessica had never seen. Then she left.
Her well-trained sense of the direction allowed her to a lay a path that she could easily retrace. Despite the late hour, the halls were almost as full as they had been in the day, but even here, people avoided her. That was unacceptable; she needed the Fremen to work for her, if not to love her. The locals who had been abused and robbed by the Empire for centuries were her only means of mustering sufficient equipment, manpower and intelligence to strike at the Harkonnens. But to use them, the Fremen must see her cause as one worth backing. For that, Paul would be essential, for they welcomed him in a way that they did not welcome Jessica. She thought that it might be because he was so young, not yet entirely the product of the culture that had birthed him. These people spoke to him in their own language without hesitation and invited his attempts to answer in kind. To Jessica, they offered smiles and translations, even when she understood. Her responses in Chakobsa warranted glowing praise, yet the Fremen continued to answer in the language of the Imperium.
It was a clever defensive strategy. Don’t let the outsider in. Don’t let the witch in. What they did not know was that they had let the Bene Gesserit in hundreds of years ago. The groundwork had been laid for revolution, and it was up to her make efficient use of it. This was not the intended execution of the Sisterhood’s careful plans, but needs must. Jessica would do what she could to protect her son, and if that meant making him a king, then so be it.
Her path had brought her back to the largest chamber of the sietch, the place they called the Majliss. In typical Fremen fashion, the word had several different meanings. It could be translated as a sitting room in a home, or as a large public gathering hall; as the physical space of a parliament, or as any discussion of social or political significance. There were Fremen proverbs addressing the Majliss, even a few that had made their way into the Zensunni Orange Bible, remnants of the divisive religions of ancient Earth.
Jessica leaned on a stone ledge looking out over the Majliss floor. From above, she could see Stilgar, working late into the night. He moved like a man who had been leading for a very long time: confident, but relaxed. He answered the concerns of his soldiers, and they responded readily. While Fremen society may not be a democracy, nor was it a dictatorship. Suggestions appeared welcome, but ultimately decision-making resided with the chieftain and his advisors, the grandmothers of the tribe whom he called As-Sayyideenaat, the women who are friends with God.
Yes, this man was an attractive choice. As his woman, Jessica could gain the ear of military and political leadership here, such as it was. Only the shadow of prophecy stayed her hand. Visions cultivated by controlled spice consumption, the hints came regularly but vaguely. They whispered now that there weren’t enough people here. Not enough for a revolution. The sietch was too small, and most of the residents she had seen in its cool confines were not fighters. There were plenty of young women with children; old men they called ‘Hajji’; and old women they respected as Sayidaat, ladies, but not as Sayyideenaat. There were also water sellers, ceaselessly plying their trade. Even well past midnight, Jessica watched people accept tiny cups of moisture, so small that she felt her throat turn to stone just looking at them. With a strange kind of envy, more for their appreciation than their consumption, Jessica watched as the Fedaykin sipped at these cups as if at the finest brandy.
There was life here, but it made no sense. These were the makers of stillsuits, as fine a technological innovation as had ever been achieved, but there were no large workshops in the sietch, no advanced tools or materials. Observing this, and the wary glances so often cast her way, Jessica knew that the Fremen were concealing a great deal.
She watched Stilgar finish with his people and mount the steps to the upper level, advancing relentlessly towards her. She offered him a tiny smile, more of a salute between soldiers than a seduction, and saw appreciation bloom on his face.
Even if she hadn’t made up her mind, it was best to keep her options open.
“Do you intend to stand there spying on us all night?” There was a teasing glint in his eye that took some of the sting out of his words.
“It is in my purview as a Bene Gesserit sister, after all.”
“Ah well,” Stilgar said regretfully. “Then we might have to kill you.”
“Didn’t you already try?”
Stilgar slapped one thick thigh with a swift hand. “You have me. It seems we must keep you here, then, to prevent you passing on our secrets.”
“A wise decision.”
It was a pleasure to fence in this manner again, and Jessica did not hide the smirk that briefly twitched her lips. The silence that fell between them was comfortable, as if they had known one another far longer than one fraught day.
“What are your plans?” Stilgar asked at last. He set his elbows on the ledge next to her and leaned over to observe as if he, too, were new to the Majliss.
“To support my son. However he requires.”
The warrior sighed. Both knew that such a resolve may put them at odds. He tilted his head back to her, and she saw a pensive gleam in his eye, as though he were considering some matter, but wasn’t sure if he wished to speak on it.
“What is it?” Jessica asked.
“Nothing.”
She leveled him with a no-nonsense stare. This was the kind of woman that she sensed Stilgar desired: bold, clever, practical. She could be that, although Leto had appreciated a bit more mystery.
“Come now,” Jessica chided. “There is something.”
He chewed on it some more and she saw the moment his resolve broke. There would be no need for the Voice, and that was always best with allies. Even if they didn’t remember, an inconvenient shadow of distrust often lingered.
Her patience was rewarded when she heard Stilgar huff a quick sigh. “You should speak to the Reverend Mother.”
Her first impulse was to question why he believed that Gaius Helen Mohiam would set foot on this place, but again intuition held her tongue. The way he said it, that hushed reverence—would any Fremen speak so about an off-world power? No, he couldn’t mean the Reverend Mother she knew. A local wise woman, then, a renegade trained in the prana-bindu mysteries.
“Do you believe she may be of help to me?” Jessica asked, feeling her way around the matter with care, as she had with the housekeeper, the woman who had called herself the Shadout Mapes. Then, caution had saved her life; it might here, too.
“I can say nothing on her behalf. But you have allied yourself with us and sacrificed something to do it. The Reverend Mother will see the value in that. The humility, too.”
In a flash of inspiration, Jessica knew why there were so few people in the sietch. The Reverend Mother was not always here. She would go where the most people lived, to best guide them.
“How long will it take her to come?’ She hesitated, watching the flicker of anticipation on Stilgar’s craggy face, and rushed to add, “How will she come from the South?”
Stilgar released a great guffaw. “I have heard that the Bene Gesserit are good, but no one is this good. You are the one, Sayyideena. The mother of Lisaan al-Ghayb. Yes, it is clear now.”
He began to explain that there were people in the South, a great many, that it was by no means uninhabitable. He confirmed what she already knew, because she had passed another test. But he was wrong. She was no mother of a Messiah, unless you counted the seeds that her Order had planted, and the Bene Gesserit were far better at prophecy and guessing games than the Fremen could imagine.
Jessica felt a faint sense of sadness for them. They were an admirable people, to have resisted colonization for so long, and Stilgar a fine example of their strength. Yet they had no understanding of the true capabilities of the Bene Gesserit, and Jessica couldn’t afford to be too sympathetic.
A woman desperate for a weapon will use any tool close at hand, even if the tool has a heart.
“I have heard that the Reverend Mother is ill,” Stilgar said. His voice was low and he made the sign to ward away evil. “This may be her last journey.”
A chill passed over Jessica's shoulders. Was this the path? And why would he share this with her, so soon? Was it a trap, or was he a true believer?
A passage from the Orange Bible surfaced in her memory, a fragment of ancient Fremen wisdom, and a warning for anyone who would gather in the open to discuss matters of significance:
"If you refuse but to make your Majliss on the road, then pay the road its rights. Lower your gaze from what you should not look upon. Refrain from harming others. Return the greeting of peace. Enjoin the good and forbid the evil.”
Jessica watched Stilgar from the corner of her eye. If it ended badly for him, then the fault was his own.