Dune

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.