Litany against fear

Paul is about to take an important test, and Jessica reminds him that he is a Duke's son. The old woman reveals herself as Jessica's former serving wench and commands Paul to put his hand in a metal box. She threatens him with a needle filled with poison, explaining that he must keep his hand in the box or he will die. Paul realizes that his mother is guarding the door and decides to face his fear and continue with the test. Paul, Jessica took a deep breath. This test that you're about to receive, it's important to me. Test? He looked up at her. Remember that you're a Duke's son, Jessica said. She whirled and strode from the room in a dry swishing of skirt. The door closed solidly behind her. Paul faced the old woman, holding anger in check. Does one dismiss the Lady Jessica as though she were a serving wench? A smile flicked the corners of the wrinkled old mouth. The Lady Jessica was my serving wench, lad. For fourteen years at school. She nodded. And a good one, too. Now you come here. The command whipped out at him. Paul found himself obeying before he could think about it. Using the voice on me, he thought. He stopped at her gesture, standing beside her knees. See this, she asked. From the folds of her gown, she lifted a green metal cube about fifteen centimeters on a side. She turned it and Paul saw that one side was open. Black and oddly frightening. No light penetrated that open blackness. Put your right hand in the box, she said. Fear shot through Paul. He started to back away, but the old woman said, is this how you obey your mother? He looked up into bright bird eyes. Slowly, feeling the compulsions and unable to inhibit them, Paul put his hand into the box. He felt at first a sense of cold as the blackness closed around his hand, then slick metal against his fingers and a prickling as though his hand were asleep. A predatory look filled the old woman's features. She lifted her right hand away from the box and poised the hand close to the side of Paul's neck. He saw a glint of metal there and started to turn toward it. Stop, she snapped. Using the voice again, he swung his attention back to her face. I hold at your neck the Gom-Jabba, she said. The Gom-Jabba, the high-handed enemy. It's a needle with a drop of poison on its tip. Don't pull away or you'll feel that poison. Paul tried to swallow in a dry throat. He could not take his attention from the seamed old face, the glistening eyes, the pale gums around silvery metal teeth that flashed as she spoke. A Duke's son must know about poisons, she said. It's the way of our times, eh? Musky to be poisoned in your drink. Almas to be poisoned in your food. The quick ones and the slow ones and the ones in between. Here's a new one for you, the Gom-Jabba. It kills only animals. Pride overcame Paul's fear. You dare suggest a Duke's son is an animal, he demanded. Let us say I suggest you may be human, she said. Steady. I warn you not to try jerking away. I am old, but my hand can drive this needle into your neck before you escape me. Who are you, he whispered. How did you trick my mother into leaving me alone with you? Are you from the Harkonnens? Bless us, no. Now, be silent. A dry finger touched his neck and he stilled the involuntary urge to leap away. Good, she said. You passed the first test. Now, here's the way of the rest of it. If you withdraw your hand from the box, you die. This is the only rule. Keep your hand in the box and you live. Withdraw it and die. Paul took a deep breath to still his trembling. If I call out there, there'll be servants on you in seconds and you'll die. Servants will not pass your mother who stands guard outside that door. Depend on it. Your mother survived this test. Now, it's your turn. Be honored. We seldom administrate this to men, children. Curiosity reduced Paul's fear to a manageable level. He heard truth in the old woman's voice, no denying it. If his mother stood guard out there, if this truby were a test, and whatever it was, he knew himself caught in it. Trapped by that hand at his neck, the Gom Jabbar. He recalled the response from the litany against fear as his mother had taught him out of the Bene Gesserit rite. I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little death. It brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. When it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. And where the fear is gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain. He felt calmness return, said, get on with it, old woman. Ah.