Dune

Somewhere far out in the bled, Idaho realized, a mother storm raged, lifting vortices of winding dust in hissing violence—a giant worm of sand powerful enough to cut flesh from bones.

He will become one with the desert, Idaho thought. The desert will fulfill him.

It was a Zensunni thought washing through his mind like clear water. Paul would go on marching out there, he knew. An Atreides would not give himself up completely to destiny, not even in the full awareness of the inevitable.

A touch of prescience came over Idaho then, and he saw that people of the future would speak of Paul in terms of seas. Despite a life soaked in dust, water would follow him. “His flesh foundered,” they would say, “but he swam on.”

Behind Idaho, a man cleared his throat.

Idaho turned to discern the figure of Stilgar standing on the bridge over the qanat.

“He will not be found,” Stilgar said. “Yet all men will find him.”

“The desert takes him—and deifies him,” Idaho said. “Yet he was an interloper here. He brought an alien chemistry to this planet—water.”

“The desert imposes its own rhythms,” Stilgar said. “We welcomed him, called him our Mahdi, our Muad’Dib, and gave him his secret name, Base of the Pillar: Usul.”

“Still he was not born a Fremen.”

“And that does not change the fact that we claimed him . . . and have claimed him finally.” Stilgar put a hand on Idaho’s shoulder. “All men are interlopers, old friend.”

“You’re a deep one, aren’t you, Stil?”

“Deep enough. I can see how we clutter the universe with our migrations. Muad’Dib gave us something uncluttered. Men will remember his Jihad for that, at least.”

“He won’t give up to the desert,” Idaho said. “He’s blind, but he won’t give up. He’s a man of honor and principle. He was Atreides-trained.”

“And his water will be poured on the sand,” Stilgar said. “Come.” He pulled gently at Idaho’s arm. “Alia is back and is asking for you.”

“She was with you at Sietch Makab?”

“Yes—she helped whip those soft Naibs into line. They take her orders now . . . as I do.”

“What orders?”

“She commanded the execution of the traitors.”

“Oh.” Idaho suppressed a feeling of vertigo as he looked up at the promontory. “Which traitors?”

“The Guildsman, the Reverend Mother Mohiam, Korba . . . a few others.”

“You slew a Reverend Mother?”

“I did. Muad’Dib left word that it should not be done.” He shrugged. “But I disobeyed him, as Alia knew I would.”

Idaho stared again into the desert, feeling himself become whole, one person capable of seeing the pattern of what Paul had created. Judgment strategy, the Atreides called it in their training manuals. People are subordinate to government, but the ruled influence the rulers. Did the ruled have any concept, he wondered, of what they had helped create here?

“Alia . . .” Stilgar said, clearing his throat. He sounded embarrassed. “She needs the comfort of your presence.”

“And she is the government,” Idaho murmured.

“A regency, no more.”

“Fortune passes everywhere, as her father often said,” Idaho muttered.

“We make our bargain with the future,” Stilgar said. “Will you come now? We need you back there.” Again, he sounded embarrassed. “She is . . . distraught. She cries out against her brother one moment, mourns him the next.”

“Presently,” Idaho promised. He heard Stilgar leave. He stood facing into the rising wind, letting the grains of sand rattle against the stillsuit.

Mentat awareness projected the outflowing patterns into the future. The possibilities dazzled him. Paul had set in motion a whirling vortex and nothing could stand in its path.

The Bene Tleilax and the Guild had overplayed their hands and had lost, were discredited. The Qizarate was shaken by the treason of Korba and others high within it. And Paul’s final voluntary act, his ultimate acceptance of their customs, had ensured the loyalty of the Fremen to him and to his house. He was one of them forever now.

“Paul is gone!” Alia’s voice was choked. She had come up almost silently to where Idaho stood and was now beside him. “He was a fool, Duncan!”

“Don’t say that!” he snapped.

“The whole universe will say it before I’m through,” she said.

“Why, for the love of heaven?”

“For the love of my brother, not of heaven.”

Zensunni insight dilated his awareness. He could sense that there was no vision in her—had been none since Chani’s death. “You practice an odd love,” he said.

“Love? Duncan, he had but to step off the track! What matter that the rest of the universe would have come shattering down behind him? He’d have been safe . . . and Chani with him!”

“Then . . . why didn’t he?”

“For the love of heaven,” she whispered. Then, more loudly, she said: “Paul’s entire life was a struggle to escape his Jihad and its deification. At least, he’s free of it. He chose this!”

“Ah, yes—the oracle.” Idaho shook his head in wonder. “Even Chani’s death. His moon fell.”

“He was a fool, wasn’t he, Duncan?”