The waiting.
It’s the dreariness , she thought. You can wait just so long. Then the dreariness of the waiting overcomes you.
There was all manner of waiting in their lives.
More than two years we’ve been here , she thought, and twice that number at least to go before we can even hope to think of trying to wrest Arrakis from the Harkonnen governor, the Mudir Nahya, the Beast Rabban .
“Reverend Mother?”
The voice from outside the hangings at her door was that of Harah, the other woman in Paul’s menage.
“Yes, Harah.”
The hangings parted and Harah seemed to glide through them. She wore sietch sandals, a red-yellow wraparound that exposed her arms almost to the shoulders. Her black hair was parted in the middle and swept back like the wings of an insect, flat and oily against her head. The jutting, predatory features were drawn into an intense frown.
Behind Harah came Alia, a girl-child of about two years.
Seeing her daughter, Jessica was caught as she frequently was by Alia’s resemblance to Paul at that age – the same wide-eyed solemnity to her questing look, the dark hair and firmness of mouth. But there were subtle differences, too, and it was in these that most adults found Alia disquieting. The child – little more than a toddler – carried herself with a calmness and awareness beyond her years. Adults were shocked to find her laughing at a subtle play of words between the sexes. Or they’d catch themselves listening to her half-lisping voice, still blurred as it was by an unformed soft palate, and discover in her words sly remarks that could only be based on experiences no two-year-old had ever encountered.
Harah sank to a cushion with an exasperated sigh, frowned at the child.
The child crossed to a cushion beside her mother, sank to it and clasped her mother’s hand. The contact of flesh restored that mutual awareness they had shared since before Alia’s birth. It wasn’t a matter of shared thoughts – although there were bursts of that if they touched while Jessica was changing the spice poison for a ceremony. It was something larger, an immediate awareness of another living spark, a sharp and poignant thing, a nerve-sympatico that made them emotionally one.
In the formal manner that befitted a member of her son’s household, Jessica said: “Subakh ul kuhar, Harah. This night finds you well?”
With the same traditional formality, she said: “Subakh un nar. I am well.” The words were almost toneless. Again, she sighed.
Jessica sensed amusement from Alia.
“My brother’s ghanima is annoyed with me,” Alia said in her half-lisp.
Jessica marked the term Alia used to refer to Harah – ghanima. In the subtleties of the Fremen tongue, the word meant “something acquired in battle” and with the added overtone that the something no longer was used for its original purpose. An ornament, a spearhead used as a curtain weight.
Harah scowled at the child. “Don’t try to insult me, child. I know my place.”
“What have you done this time, Alia?” Jessica asked.
Harah answered; “Not only has she refused to play with the other children today, but she intruded where . . . ”
“I hid behind the hangings and watched Subiay’s child being born,” Alia said. “It’s a boy. He cried and cried. What a set of lungs! When he’d cried long enough – ”
“She came out and touched him,” Harah said, “and he stopped crying. Everyone knows a Fremen baby must get his crying done at birth, if he’s in sietch because he can never cry again lest he betray us on hajr.”
“He’d cried enough,” Alia said. “I just wanted to feel his spark, his life. That’s all. And when he felt me he didn’t want to cry anymore.”
“It’s just made more talk among the people,” Harah said.
“Subiay’s boy is healthy?” Jessica asked. She saw that something was troubling Harah deeply and wondered at it.
“Healthy as any mother could ask,” Harah said. “They know Alia didn’t hurt him. They didn’t so much mind her touching him. He settled down right away and was happy. It was . . . ” Harah shrugged.
“It’s the strangeness of my daughter, is that it?” Jessica asked. “It’s the way she speaks of things beyond her years and of things no child her age could know – things of the past.”
“How could she know what a child looked like on Bela Tegeuse?” Harah demanded.
“But he does!” Alia said, “Subiay’s boy looks just like the son of Mitha born before the parting.”
“Alia!” Jessica said. “I warned you.”
“But, Mother, I saw it and it was true and . . . ”
Jessica shook her head, seeing the signs of disturbance in Harah’s face. What have I borne? Jessica asked herself. A daughter who knew at birth everything that I knew . . . and more: everything revealed to her out of the corridors of the past by the Reverend Mothers within me .
“It’s not just the things she says,” Harah said. “It’s the exercises, too: the way she sits and stares at a rock, moving only one muscle beside her nose, or a muscle on the back of a finger, or – ”
“Those are the Bene Gesserit training,” Jessica said. “You know that, Harah. Would you deny my daughter her inheritance?”
“Reverend Mother, you know these things don’t matter to me,” Harah said. “It’s the people and the way they mutter. I feel danger in it. They say your daughter’s a demon, that other children refuse to play with her, that she’s – ”
“She has so little in common with the other children,” Jessica said. “She’s no demon. It’s just the – ”
“Of course she’s not!”
Jessica found herself surprised at the vehemence in Harah’s tone, glanced down at Alia. The child appeared lost in thought, radiating a sense of . . . waiting. Jessica returned her attention to Harah.
“I respect the fact that you’re a member of my son’s household,” Jessica said. (Alia stirred against her hand.) “You may speak openly with me of whatever’s troubling you.”
“I will not be a member of your son’s household much longer,” Harah said. “I’ve waited this long for the sake of my sons, the special training they receive as the children of Usul. It’s little enough I could give them since it’s known I don’t share your son’s bed.”
Again Alia stirred beside her, half-sleeping, warm.
“You’d have made a good companion for my son, though,” Jessica said. And she added to herself because such thoughts were ever with her: Companion . . . not a wife . Jessica’s thoughts went then straight to the center, to the pang that came from the common talk in the sietch that her son’s companionship with Chani had become a permanent thing, the marriage.
I love Chani , Jessica thought, but she reminded herself that love might have to step aside for royal necessity. Royal marriages had other reasons than love.
“You think I don’t know what you plan for your son?” Harah asked.
“What do you mean?” Jessica demanded.
“You plan to unite the tribes under Him ,” Harah said.
“Is that bad?”
“I see danger for him . . . and Alia is part of that danger.”
Alia nestled closer to her mother, eyes opened now and studying Harah.
“I’ve watched you two together,” Harah said, “the way you touch. And Alia is like my own flesh because she’s sister to one who is like my brother. I’ve watched over her and guarded her from the time she was a mere baby, from the time of the razzia when we fled here. I’ve seen many things about her.”
Jessica nodded, feeling disquiet begin to grow in Alia beside her.
“You know what I mean,” Harah said. “The way she knew from the first what we were saying to her. When has there been another baby who knew the water discipline so young? What other baby’s first words to her nurse were: ‘I love you, Harah’?”
Harah stared at Alia. “Why do you think I accept her insults? I know there’s no malice in them.”
Alia looked up at her mother.
“Yes, I have reasoning powers, Reverend Mother,” Harah said. “I could have been of the Sayyadina. I have seen what I have seen.”
“Harah . . . ” Jessica shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.” And she felt surprise at herself, because this literally was true.
Alia straightened, squared her shoulders. Jessica felt the sense of waiting ended, an emotion compounded of decision and sadness.
“We made a mistake,” Alia said. “Now we need Harah.”
“It was the ceremony of the seed,” Harah said, “when you changed the Water of Life, Reverend Mother, when Alia was yet unborn within you.”
Need Harah? Jessica asked herself.
“Who else can talk among the people and make them begin to understand me?” Alia asked.
“What would you have her do?” Jessica asked.
“She already knows what to do,” Alia said.
“I will tell them the truth,” Harah said. Her face seemed suddenly old and sad with its olive skin drawn into frown wrinkles, a witchery in the sharp features. “I will tell them that Alia only pretends to be a little girl, that she has never been a little girl.”
Alia shook her head. Tears ran down her cheeks, and Jessica felt the wave of sadness from her daughter as though the emotion were her own.
“I know I’m a freak,” Alia whispered. The adult summation coming from the child mouth was like a bitter confirmation.
“You’re not a freak!” Harah snapped. “Who dared say you’re a freak?”
Again, Jessica marveled at the fierce note of protectiveness in Harah’s voice. Jessica saw then that Alia had judged correctly – they did need Harah. The tribe would understand Harah – both her words and her emotions – for it was obvious she loved Alia as though this were her own child.
“Who said it?” Harah repeated.
“Nobody.”
Alia used a corner of Jessica’s aba to wipe the tears from her face. She smoothed the robe where she had dampened and crumpled it.
“Then don’t you say it,” Harah ordered.
“Yes, Harah.”
“Now,” Harah said, “you may tell me what it was like so that I may tell the others. Tell me what it is that happened to you.”
Alia swallowed, looked up at her mother.
Jessica nodded.
“One day I woke up,” Alia said. “It was like waking from sleep except that I could not remember going to sleep. I was in a warm, dark place. And I was frightened.”
Listening to the half-lisping voice of her daughter, Jessica remembered that day in the big cavern.
“When I was frightened,” Alia said, “I tried to escape, but there was no way to escape. Then I saw a spark . . . but it wasn’t exactly like seeing it. The spark was just there with me and I felt the spark’s emotions . . . soothing me, comforting me, telling me that way that everything would be all right. That was my mother.”
Harah rubbed at her eyes, smiled reassuringly at Alia. Yet there was a look of wildness in the eyes of the Fremen woman, an intensity as though they, too, were trying to hear Alia’s words.
And Jessica thought: What do we really know of how such a one thinks . . . out of her unique experiences and training and ancestry?
“Just when I felt safe and reassured,” Alia said, “there was another spark with us . . . and everything was happening at once. The other spark was the old Reverend Mother. She was . . . trading lives with my mother . . . everything . . . and I was there with them, seeing it all . . . everything. And it was over, and I was them and all the others and myself . . . only it took me a long time to find myself again. There were so many others.”
“It was a cruel thing,” Jessica said. “No being should wake into consciousness thus. The wonder of it is you could accept all that happened to you.”
“I couldn’t do anything else!” Alia said. “I didn’t know how to reject or hide my consciousness . . . or shut if off . . . everything just happened . . . everything . . . ”
“We didn’t know,” Harah murmured. “When we gave your mother the Water to change, we didn’t know you existed within her.”
“Don’t be sad about it, Harah,” Alia said. “I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. After all, there’s cause for happiness here: I’m a Reverend Mother. The tribe has two Rev . . . ”
She broke off, tipping her head to listen.
Harah rocked back on her heels against the sitting cushion, stared at Alia, bringing her attention then up to Jessica’s face.
“Didn’t you suspect?” Jessica asked.
“Sh-h-h-h,” Alia said.
A distant rhythmic chanting came to them through the hangings that separated them from the sietch corridors. It grew louder, carrying distinct sounds now: “Ya! Ya! Yawm! Ya! Ya! Yawm! Mu zein, wallah! Ya! Ya! Yawm! Mu zein, Wallah!”
The chanters passed the outer entrance, and their voices boomed through to the inner apartments. Slowly the sound receded.
When the sound had dimmed sufficiently, Jessica began the ritual, the sadness in her voice: “It was Ramadhan and April on Bela Tegeuse.”
“My family sat in their pool courtyard,” Harah said, “in air bathed by the moisture that arose from the spray of a fountain. There was a tree of portyguls, round and deep in color, near at hand. There was a basket with mish mish and baklawa and mugs of liban – all manner of good things to eat. In our gardens and, in our flocks, there was peace . . . peace in all the land.”
“Life was full with happiness until the raiders came,” Alia said.
“Blood ran cold at the scream of friends,” Jessica said. And she felt the memories rushing through her out of all those other pasts she shared.
“La, la, la, the women cried,” said Harah.
“The raiders came through the mushtamal, rushing at us with their knives dripping red from the lives of our men,” Jessica said.
Silence came over the three of them as it was in all the apartments of the sietch, the silence while they remembered and kept their grief thus fresh.
Presently, Harah uttered the ritual ending to the ceremony, giving the words a harshness that Jessica had never before heard in them.
“We will never forgive and we will never forget,” Harah said.
In the thoughtful quiet that followed her words, they heard a muttering of people, the swish of many robes. Jessica sensed someone standing beyond the hangings that shielded her chamber.
“Reverend Mother?”
A woman’s voice, and Jessica recognized it: the voice of Tharthar, one of Stilgar’s wives.
“What is it, Tharthar?”
“There is trouble, Reverend Mother.”
Jessica felt a constriction at her heart, an abrupt fear for Paul. “Paul . . .” she gasped.
Tharthar spread the hangings, stepped into the chamber. Jessica glimpsed a press of people in the outer room before the hangings fell. She looked up at Tharthar – a small, dark woman in a red-figured robe of black, the total blue of her eyes trained fixedly on Jessica, the nostrils of her tiny nose dilated to reveal the plug scars.
“What is it?” Jessica demanded.
“There is word from the sand,” Tharthar said. “Usul meets the maker for his test . . . it is today. The young men say he cannot fail, he will be a sandrider by nightfall. The young men are banding for a razzia. They will raid in the north and meet Usul there. They say they will raise the cry then. They say they will force him to call out Stilgar and assume command of the tribes.”
Gathering water, planting the dunes, changing their world slowly but surely – these are no longer enough , Jessica thought. The little raids, the certain raids – these are no longer enough now that Paul and I have trained them. They feel their power. They want to fight .
Tharthar shifted from one foot to the other, cleared her throat.
We know the need for cautious waiting , Jessica thought, but there’s the core of our frustration. We know also the harm that waiting extended too long can do us. We lose our senses of purpose if the waiting’s prolonged .
“The young men say if Usul does not call out Stilgar, then he must be afraid,” Tharthar said.
She lowered her gaze.
“So that’s the way of it,” Jessica muttered. And she thought: Well I saw it coming. As did Stilgar .
Again, Tharthar cleared her throat. “Even my brother, Shoab, says it,” she said. “They will leave Usul no choice.”
Then it has come , Jessica thought. And Paul will have to handle it himself. The Reverend Mother dare not become involved in the succession .
Alia freed her hand from her mother’s, said: “I will go with Tharthar and listen to the young men. Perhaps there is a way.”
Jessica met Tharthar’s gaze, but spoke to Alia: “Go, then. And report to me as soon as you can.”
“We do not want this thing to happen, Reverend Mother,” Tharthar said.
“We do not want it,” Jessica agreed. “The tribe needs all its strength.” She glanced at Harah. “Will you go with them?”
Harah answered the unspoken part of the question: “Tharthar will allow no harm to befall Alia. She knows we will soon be wives together, she and I, to share the same man. We have talked, Tharthar and I.” Harah looked up at Tharthar, back to Jessica. “We have an understanding.”
Tharthar held out a hand for Alia, said: “We must hurry. The young men are leaving.”
They pressed through the hangings, the child’s hand in the small woman’s hand, but the child seemed to be leading.
“If Paul-Muad’Dib slays Stilgar, this will not serve the tribe,” Harah said. “Always before, it has been the way of succession, but times have changed.”
“Times have changed for you, as well,” Jessica said.
“You cannot think I doubt the outcome of such a battle,” Harah said. “Usul could not but win.”
“That was my meaning,” Jessica said.
“And you think my personal feelings enter into my judgment,” Harah said. She shook her head, her water rings tinkling at her neck. “How wrong you are. Perhaps you think, as well, that I regret not being the chosen of Usul, that I am jealous of Chani?”
“You make your own choice as you are able,” Jessica said.
“I pity Chani,” Harah said.
Jessica stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I know what you think of Chani,” Harah said. “You think she is not the wife for your son.”
Jessica settled back, relaxed on her cushions. She shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You could be right,” Harah said. “If you are, you may find a surprising ally – Chani herself. She wants whatever is best for Him .”
Jessica swallowed past a sudden tightening in her throat. “Chani’s very dear to me,” she said. “She could be no – ”
“Your rugs are very dirty in here,” Harah said. She swept her gaze around the floor, avoiding Jessica’s eyes. “So many people tramping through here all the time. You really should have them cleaned more often.”
You cannot avoid the interplay of politics within an orthodox religion. This power struggle permeates the training, educating and disciplining of the orthodox community. Because of this pressure, the leaders of such a community inevitably must face that ultimate internal question: to succumb to complete opportunism as the price of maintaining their rule, or risk sacrificing themselves for the sake of the orthodox ethic.
– from “Muad’Dib: The Religious Issues” by the Princess Irulan
Paul waited on the sand outside the gigantic maker’s line of approach. I must not wait like a smuggler – impatient and jittering , he reminded himself. I must be part of the desert .
The thing was only minutes away now, filling the morning with the friction-hissing of its passage. Its great teeth within the cavern-circle of its mouth spread like some enormous flower. The spice odor from it dominated the air.
Paul’s stillsuit rode easily on his body and he was only distantly aware of his nose plugs, the breathing mask. Stilgar’s teaching, the painstaking hours on the sand, overshadowed all else.
“How far outside the maker’s radius must you stand in pea sand?” Stilgar had asked him.
And he had answered correctly: “Half a meter for every meter of the maker’s diameter.”
“Why?”
“To avoid the vortex of its passage and still have time to run in and mount it.”
“You’ve ridden the little ones bred for the seed and the Water of Life,” Stilgar had said. “But what you’ll summon for your test is a wild maker, an old man of the desert. You must have proper respect for such a one.”
Now the thumper’s deep drumming blended with the hiss of the approaching worm. Paul breathed deeply, smelling mineral bitterness of sand even through his filters. The wild maker, the old man of the desert, loomed, almost on him. Its cresting front segments threw a sandwave that would sweep across his knees.
Come up, you lovely monster , he thought. Up. You hear me calling. Come up. Come up .
The wave lifted his feet. Surface dust swept across him. He steadied himself, his world dominated by the passage of that sand-clouded curving wall, that segmented cliff, the ring lines sharply defined in it.
Paul lifted his hooks, sighted along them, leaned in. He felt them bite and pull. He leaped upward, planting his feet against that wall, leaning out against the clinging barbs. This was the true instant of the testing: if he had planted the hooks correctly at the leading edge of a ring segment, opening the segment, the worm would not roll down and crush him.
The worm slowed. It glided across the thumper, silencing it. Slowly, it began to roll – up, up – bringing those irritant barbs as high as possible, away from the sand that threatened the soft inner lapping of its ring segment.
Paul found himself riding upright atop the worm. He felt exultant, like an emperor surveying his world. He suppressed a sudden urge to cavort there, to turn the worm, to show off his mastery of this creature.
Suddenly he understood why Stilgar had warned him once about brash young men who danced and played with these monsters, doing handstands on their backs, removing both hooks and replanting them before the worm could spill them.
Leaving one hook in place, Paul released the other and planted it lower down the side. When the second hook was firm and tested, he brought down the first one, thus worked his way down the side. The maker rolled, and as it rolled, it turned, coming around the sweep of flour sand where the others waited.
Paul saw them come up, using their hooks to climb, but avoiding the sensitive ring edges until they were on top. They rode at last in a triple line behind him, steadied against their hooks.
Stilgar moved up through the ranks, checked the positioning of Paul’s hooks, glanced up at Paul’s smiling face.
“You did it, eh?” Stilgar asked, raising his voice above the hiss of their passage. “That’s what you think? You did it?” He straightened. “Now I tell you that was a very sloppy job. We have twelve-year-olds who do better. There was drumsand to your left where you waited. You could not retreat there if the worm turned that way.”
The smile slipped from Paul’s face. “I saw the drumsand.”
“Then why did you not signal for one of us to take up position secondary to you? It was a thing you could do even in the test.”
Paul swallowed, faced into the wind of their passage.
“You think it bad of me to say this now,” Stilgar said. “It is my duty. I think of your worth to the troop. If you had stumbled into that drumsand, the maker would’ve turned toward you.”
In spite of a surge of anger, Paul knew that Stilgar spoke the truth. It took a long minute and the full effort of the training he had received from his mother for Paul to recapture a feeling of calm. “I apologize,” he said. “It will not happen again.”
“In a tight position, always leave yourself a secondary, someone to take the maker if you cannot,” Stilgar said. “Remember that we work together. That way, we’re certain. We work together, eh?”
He slapped Paul’s shoulder.
“We work together,” Paul agreed.
“Now,” Stilgar said, and his voice was harsh, “show me you know how to handle a maker. Which side are we on?”
Paul glanced down at the scaled ring surface on which they stood, noted the character and size of the scales, the way they grew larger off to his right, smaller to his left. Every worm, he knew, moved characteristically with one side up more frequently. As it grew older, the characteristic up-side became an almost constant thing. Bottom scales grew larger, heavier, smoother. Top scales could be told by size alone on a big worm.
Shifting his hooks, Paul moved to the left. He motioned flankers down to open segments along the side and keep the worm on a straight course as it rolled. When he had it turned, he motioned two steersmen out of the line and into positions ahead.
“Ach, haiiiii-yoh!” he shouted in the traditional call. The left-side steersman opened a ring segment there.
In a majestic circle, the maker turned to protect its opened segment. Full around it came and when it was headed back to the south, Paul shouted: “Geyrat!”
The steersman released his hook. The maker lined out in a straight course.
Stilgar said. “Very good, Paul Muad’Dib. With plenty of practice, you may yet become a sandrider.”
Paul frowned, thinking: Was I not first up?
From behind him there came sudden laughter. The troop began chanting, flinging his name against the sky.
“Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!”
And far to the rear along the worm’s surface, Paul heard the beat of the goaders pounding the tail segments. The worm began picking up speed. Their robes flapped in the wind. The abrasive sound of their passage increased.
Paul looked back through the troop, found Chani’s face among them. He looked at her as he spoke to Stilgar. “Then I am a sandrider, Stil?”
“Hal yawm! You are a sandrider this day.”
“Then I may choose our destination?”
“That’s the way of it.”
“And I am a Fremen born this day here in the Habbanya erg. I have had no life before this day. I was as a child until this day.”
“Not quite a child,” Stilgar said. He fastened a corner of his hood where the wind was whipping it.
“But there was a cork sealing off my world, and that cork has been pulled.”
“There is no cork.”
“I would go south, Stilgar – twenty thumpers. I would see this land we make, this land that I’ve only seen through the eyes of others.”
And I would see my son and my family , he thought. I need time now to consider the future that is a past within my mind. The turmoil comes and if I’m not where I can unravel it, the thing will run wild .
Stilgar looked at him with a steady, measuring gaze. Paul kept his attention on Chani, seeing the interest quicken in her face, noting also the excitement his words had kindled in the troop.
“The men are eager to raid with you in the Harkonnen sinks,” Stilgar said. “The sinks are only a thumper away.”
“The Fedaykin have raided with me,” Paul said. “They’ll raid with me again until no Harkonnen breathes Arrakeen air.”
Stilgar studied him as they rode, and Paul realized the man was seeing this moment through the memory of how he had risen to command of the Tabr sietch and to leadership of the Council of Leaders now that Liet-Kynes was dead.
He has heard the reports of unrest among the young Fremen , Paul thought.
“Do you wish a gathering of the leaders?” Stilgar asked.
Eyes blazed among the young men of the troop. They swayed as they rode, and they watched. And Paul saw the look of unrest in Chani’s glance, the way she looked from Stilgar, who was her uncle, to Paul-Muad’Dib, who was her mate.
“You cannot guess what I want,” Paul said.
And he thought: I cannot back down. I must hold control over these people .
“You are mudir of the sandride this day,” Stilgar said. Cold formality rang in his voice: “How do you use this power?”
We need time to relax, time for cool reflection , Paul thought.
“We shall go south,” Paul said.
“Even if I say we shall turn back to the north when this day is over?”
“We shall go south,” Paul repeated.
A sense of inevitable dignity enfolded Stilgar as he pulled his robe tightly around him. “There will be a Gathering,” he said. “I will send the messages.”
He thinks I will call him out , Paul thought. And he knows he cannot stand against me .
Paul faced south, feeling the wind against his exposed cheeks, thinking of the necessities that went into his decisions.
They do not know how it is , he thought.
But he knew he could not let any consideration deflect him. He had to remain on the central line of the time storm he could see in the future. There would come an instant when it could be unraveled, but only if he were where he could cut the central knot of it.
I will not call him out if it can be helped , he thought. If there’s another way to prevent the jihad . . .
“We’ll camp for the evening meal and prayer at Cave of Birds beneath Habbanya Ridge,” Stilgar said. He steadied himself with one hook against the swaying of the maker, gestured ahead at a low rock barrier rising out of the desert.
Paul studied the cliff, the great streaks of rock crossing it like waves. No green, no blossom softened that rigid horizon. Beyond it stretched the way to the southern desert – a course of at least ten days and nights, as fast as they could goad the makers.
Twenty thumpers.
The way led far beyond the Harkonnen patrols. He knew how it would be. The dreams had shown him. One day, as they went, there ‘d be a faint change of color on the far horizon – such a slight change that he might feel he was imagining it out of his hopes – and there would be the new sietch.
“Does my decision suit Muad’Dib?” Stilgar asked. Only the faintest touch of sarcasm tinged his voice, but Fremen ears around them, alert to every tone in a bird’s cry or a cielago’s piping message, heard the sarcasm and watched Paul to see what he would do.
“Stilgar heard me swear my loyalty to him when we consecrated the Fedaykin,” Paul said. “My death commandos know I spoke with honor. Does Stilgar doubt it?”
Real pain exposed itself in Paul’s voice. Stilgar heard it and lowered his gaze.
“Usul, the companion of my sietch, him I would never doubt,” Stilgar said. “But you are Paul-Muad’Dib, the Atreides Duke, and you are the Lisan al-Gaib, the Voice from the Outer World. These men I don’t even know.”
Paul turned away to watch the Habbanya Ridge climb out of the desert. The maker beneath them still felt strong and willing. It could carry them almost twice the distance of any other in Fremen experience. He knew it. There was nothing outside the stories told to children that could match this old man of the desert. It was the stuff of a new legend, Paul realized.
A hand gripped his shoulder.
Paul looked at it, followed the arm to the face beyond it – the dark eyes of Stilgar exposed between filter mask and stillsuit hood.
“The one who led Tabr sietch before me,” Stilgar said, “he was my friend. We shared dangers. He owed me his life many a time . . . and I owed him mine.”
“I am your friend, Stilgar,” Paul said.
“No man doubts it,” Stilgar said. He removed his hand, shrugged. “It’s the way.”
Paul saw that Stilgar was too immersed in the Fremen way to consider the possibility of any other. Here a leader took the reins from the dead hands of his predecessor, or slew among the strongest of his tribe if a leader died in the desert. Stilgar had risen to be a naib in that way.
“We should leave this maker in deep sand,” Paul said.
“Yes,” Stilgar agreed. “We could walk to the cave from here.”
“We’ve ridden him far enough that he’ll bury himself and sulk for a day or so,” Paul said.
“You’re the mudir of the sandride,” Stilgar said. “Say when we . . .” He broke off, stared at the eastern sky.
Paul whirled. The spice-blue overcast on his eyes made the sky appear dark, a richly filtered azure against which a distant rhythmic flashing stood out in sharp contrast.
Ornithopter!
“One small ‘thopter,” Stilgar said.
“Could be a scout,” Paul said. “Do you think they’ve seen us.”
“At this distance we’re just a worm on the surface,” Stilgar said. He motioned with his left hand. “Off. Scatter on the sand.”
The troop began working down the worm’s sides, dropping off, blending with the sand beneath their cloaks. Paul marked where Chani dropped. Presently, only he and Stilgar remained.
“First up, last off,” Paul said.
Stilgar nodded, dropped down the side on his hooks, leaped onto the sand. Paul waited until the maker was safely clear of the scatter area, then released his hooks. This was the tricky moment with a worm not completely exhausted.
Freed of its goads and hooks, the big worm began burrowing into the sand. Paul ran lightly back along its broad surface, judged his moment carefully and leaped off. He landed running, lunged against the slipface of a dune the way he had been taught, and hid himself beneath the cascade of sand over his robe.
Now, the waiting . . .
Paul turned, gently, exposed a crack of sky beneath a crease in his robe. He imagined the others back along their path doing the same.
He heard the beat of the ‘thopter’s wings before he saw it. There was a whisper of jetpods and it came over his patch of desert, turned in a broad arc toward the ridge.
An unmarked ‘thopter, Paul noted.
It flew out of sight beyond Habbanya Ridge.
A bird cry sounded over the desert. Another.
Paul shook himself free of sand, climbed to the dune top. Other figures stood out in a line trailing away from the ridge. He recognized Chani and Stilgar among them.
Stilgar signaled toward the ridge.
They gathered and began the sandwalk, gliding over the surface in a broken rhythm that would disturb no maker. Stilgar paced himself beside Paul along the windpacked crest of a dune.
“It was a smuggler craft,” Stilgar said.
“So it seemed,” Paul said. “But this is deep into the desert, for smugglers.”
“They’ve their difficulties with patrols, too,” Stilgar said.
“If they come this deep, they may go deeper,” Paul said.
“True.”
“It wouldn’t be well for them to see what they could see if they ventured too deep into the south. Smugglers sell information, too.”
“They were hunting spice, don’t you think?” Stilgar asked.
“There will be a wing and a crawler waiting somewhere for that one,” Paul said. “We’ve spice. Let’s bait a patch of sand and catch us some smugglers. They should be taught that this is our land and our men need practice with the new weapons.”
“Now, Usul speaks,” Stilgar said. “Usul thinks Fremen.”
But Usul must give way to decisions that match a terrible purpose , Paul thought.
And the storm was gathering.
When law and duty are one, united by religion, you never become fully conscious, fully aware of yourself. You are always a little less than an individual.
– from “Muad’Dib: The Ninety-Nine Wonders of
the Universe” by Princess Irulan
The smuggler’s spice factory with its parent carrier and ring of drone ornithopters came over a lifting of dunes like a swarm of insects following its queen. Ahead of the swarm lay one of the low rock ridges that lifted from the desert floor like small imitations of the Shield Wall. The dry beaches of the ridge were swept clean by a recent storm.
In the con-bubble of the factory, Gurney Halleck leaned forward, adjusted the oil lenses of his binoculars and examined the landscape. Beyond the ridge, he could see a dark patch that might be a spiceblow, and he gave the signal to a hovering ornithopter that sent it to investigate.
The ‘thopter waggled its wings to indicate it had the signal. It broke away from the swarm, sped down toward the darkened sand, circled the area with its detectors dangling close to the surface.
Almost immediately, it went through the wing-tucked dip and circle that told the waiting factory that spice had been found.
Gurney sheathed his binoculars, knowing the others had seen the signal. He liked this spot. The ridge offered some shielding and protection. This was deep in the desert, an unlikely place for an ambush . . . still . . . Gurney signaled for a crew to hover over the ridge, to scan it, sent reserves to take up station in pattern around the area – not too high because then they could be seen from afar by Harkonnen detectors.
