Dune (71 page)

“I’ve a new one,” Gurney said. “Brought from Chusuk, a sweet instrument.
Plays like a genuine Varota, though there’s no signature on it. I think myself
it was made by a student of Varota’s who . . .” He broke off. “What can I say to
you, my Lady? Here we prattle about –”

“Not prattle, Gurney,” Paul said. He crossed to stand beside his mother, eye
to eye with Gurney. “Not prattle, but a thing that brings happiness between
friends. I’d take it a kindness if you’d play for her now. Battle planning can
wait a little while. We’ll not be going into the fight till tomorrow at any
rate.”

“I . . . I’ll get my baliset,” Gurney said. “It’s in the passage.” He
stepped around them and through the hangings.

Paul put a hand on his mother’s arm, found that she was trembling.

“It’s over, Mother,” he said.

Without turning her head, she looked up at him from the corners of her eyes.
“Over?”

“Of course. Gurney’s . . . ”

“Gurney? Oh . . . yes.” She lowered her gaze.

The hangings rustled as Gurney returned with his baliset. He began tuning
it, avoiding their eyes. The hangings on the walls dulled the echoes, making the
instrument sound small and intimate.

Paul led his mother to a cushion, seated her there with her back to the
thick draperies of the wall. He was suddenly struck by how old she seemed to him
with the beginnings of desert-?dried lines in her face, the stretching at the
corners of her blue-?veiled eyes.

She’s tired, he thought. We must find some way to ease her burdens.

Gurney strummed a chord.

Paul glanced at him, said: “I’ve . . . things that need my attention. Wait
here for me.”

Gurney nodded. His mind seemed far away, as though he dwelled for this
moment beneath the open skies of Caladan with cloud fleece on the horizon
promising rain.

Paul forced himself to turn away, let himself out through the heavy hangings
over the side passage. He heard Gurney take up a tune behind him, and paused a
moment outside the room to listen to the muted music.

“Orchards and vineyards,
And full-?breasted houris,
And a cup overflowing before me.
Why do I babble of battles,
And mountains reduced to dust?
Why do I feel these tears?

Heavens stand open
And scatter their riches;
My hands need but gather their wealth.
Why do I think of an ambush,
And poison in molten cup?
Why do I feel my years?

Love’s arms beckon
With their naked delights,
And Eden’s promise of ecstasies.
Why do I remember the scars,
Dream of old transgressions . . .
And why do I sleep with fears?”

A robed Fedaykin courier appeared from a corner of the passage ahead of
Paul. The man had hood thrown back and fastenings of his stillsuit hanging loose
about his neck, proof that he had come just now from the open desert.

Paul motioned for him to stop, left the hangings of the door and moved down
the passage to the courier.

The man bowed, hands clasped in front of him the way he might greet a
Reverend Mother or Sayyadina of the rites. He said: “Muad’Dib, leaders are
beginning to arrive for the Council.”

“So soon?”

“These are the ones Stilgar sent for earlier when it was thought . . .” He
shrugged.

“I see.” Paul glanced back toward the faint sound of the baliset, thinking
of the old song that his mother favored — an odd stretching of happy tune and
sad words. “Stilgar will come here soon with others. Show them where my mother
waits.”

“I will wait here, Muad’Dib,” the courier said.

“Yes . . . yes, do that.”

Paul pressed past the man toward the depths of the cavern, headed for the
place that each such cavern had — a place near its water-?holding basin. There
would be a small shai-?hulud in this place, a creature no more than nine meters
long, kept stunted and trapped by surrounding water ditches. The maker, after
emerging from its little maker vector, avoided water for the poison it was. And
the drowning of a maker was the greatest Fremen secret because it produced the
substance of their union — the Water of Life, the poison that could only be
changed by a Reverend Mother.

The decision had come to Paul while he faced the tension of danger to his
mother. No line of the future he had ever seen carried that moment, of peril
from Gurney Halleck. The future — the gray-?cloud-?future — with its feeling
that the entire universe rolled toward a boiling nexus hung around him like a
phantom world.

I must see it, he thought.

His body had slowly acquired a certain spice tolerance that made prescient
visions fewer and fewer . . . dimmer and dimmer. The solution appeared obvious
to him.

I will drown the maker. We will see now whether I’m the Kwisatz Haderach who
can survive the test that the Reverend Mothers have survived.

= = = = = =

And it came to pass in the third year of the Desert War that Paul-?Muad’Dib lay
alone in the Cave of Birds beneath the kiswa hangings of an inner cell. And he
lay as one dead, caught up in the revelation of the Water of Life, his being
translated beyond the boundaries of time by the poison that gives life. Thus was
the prophecy made true that the Lisan al-?Gaib might be both dead and alive.
-“Collected Legends of Arrakis” by the Princess Irulan

Chani came up out of the Habbanya basin in the predawn darkness, hearing the
‘thopter that had brought her from the south go whir-?whirring off to a hiding
place in the vastness. Around her, the escort kept its distance, fanning out
into the rocks of the ridge to probe for dangers — and giving the mate of
Muad’Dib, the mother of his firstborn, the thing she had requested: a moment to
walk alone.

Why did he summon me? she asked herself. He told me before that I must
remain in the south with little Leto and Alia.

She gathered her robe and leaped lightly up across a barrier rock and onto
the climbing path that only the desert-?trained could recognize in the darkness.
Pebbles slithered underfoot and she danced across them without considering the
nimbleness required.

The climb was exhilarating, easing the fears that had fermented in her
because of her escort’s silent withdrawal and the fact that a precious ‘thopter
had been sent for her. She felt the inner leaping at the nearness of reunion
with Paul-?Muad’Dib, her Usul. His name might be a battle cry over all the land:
“Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!” But she knew a different man by a different name
– the father of her son, the tender lover.

A great figure loomed out of the rocks above her, beckoning for speed. She
quickened her pace. Dawn birds already were calling and lifting into the sky. A
dim spread of light grew across the eastern horizon.

The figure above was not one of her own escort. Otheym? she wondered,
marking a familiarity of movement and manner. She came up to him, recognized in
the growing light the broad, flat features of the Fedaykin lieutenant, his hood
open and mouth filter loosely fastened the way one did sometimes when venturing
out on the desert for only a moment.

“Hurry,” he hissed, and led her down the secret crevasse into the hidden
cave. “It will be light soon,” he whispered as he held a doorseal open for her.
“The Harkonnens have been making desperation patrols over some of this region.
We dare not chance discovery now.”

They emerged into the narrow side-?passage entrance to the Cave of Birds.
Glowglobes came alight. Otheym pressed past her, said: “Follow me. Quickly,
now.”
They sped down the passage, through another valve door, another passage and
through hangings into what had been the Sayyadina’s alcove in the days when this
was an overday rest cave. Rugs and cushions now covered the floor. Woven
hangings with the red figure of a hawk hid the rock walls. A low field desk at
one side was strewn with papers from which lifted the aroma of their spice
origin.

The Reverend Mother sat alone directly opposite the entrance. She looked up
with the inward stare that made the uninitiated tremble.

Otheym pressed palms together, said: “I have brought Chani.” He bowed,
retreated through the hangings.

And Jessica thought: How do I tell Chani?

“How is my grandson?” Jessica asked.

So it’s to be the ritual greeting, Chani thought, and her fears returned.
Where is Muad’Dib? Why isn’t he here to greet me?

“He is healthy and happy, my mother,” Chani said. “I left him with Alia in
the care of Harah.”

My mother, Jessica thought. Yes, she has the right to call me that in the
formal greeting. She has given me a grandson.

“I hear a gift of cloth has been sent from Coanua sietch,” Jessica said.

“It is lovely cloth,” Chani said.

“Does Alia send a message?”

“No message. But the sietch moves more smoothly now that the people are
beginning to accept the miracle of her status.”

Why does she drag this out so? Chani wondered. Something was so urgent that
they sent a ‘thopter for me. Now, we drag through the formalities!

“We must have some of the new cloth cut into garments for little Leto,”
Jessica said.

“Whatever you wish, my mother,” Chani said. She lowered her gaze. “Is there
news of battles?” She held her face expressionless that Jessica might not see
the betrayal — that this was a question about Paul Muad’Dib.

“New victories,” Jessica said. “Rabban has sent cautious overtures about a
truce. His messengers have been returned without their water. Rabban has even
lightened the burdens of the people in some of the sink villages. But he is too
late. ”The people know he does it out of fear of us.“

”Thus it goes as Muad’Dib said,“ Chani said. She stared at Jessica, trying
to keep her fears to herself. I have spoken his name, but she has not responded.
One cannot see emotion in that glazed stone she calls a face . . . but she is
too frozen. Why is she so still? What has happened to my Usul?

”I wish we were in the south,“ Jessica said. ”The oases were so beautiful
when we left. Do you not long for the day when the whole land may blossom thus?“

”The land is beautiful, true,“ Chani said. ”But there is much grief in it.“

”Grief is the price of victory,“ Jessica said.

Is she preparing me for grief? Chani asked herself. She said: ”There are so
many women without men. There was jealousy when it was learned that I’d been
summoned north.“

”I summoned you,“ Jessica said.

Chani felt her heart hammering. She wanted to clap her hands to her ears,
fearful of what they might hear. Still, she kept her voice even: ”The message
was signed Muad’Dib.“

”I signed it thus in the presence of his lieutenants,“ Jessica said. ”It was
a subterfuge of necessity.“ And Jessica thought: This is a brave woman, my
Paul’s. She holds to the niceties even when fear is almost overwhelming her.
Yes. She may be the one we need now.

Only the slightest tone of resignation crept into Chani’s voice as she said:
”Now you may say the thing that must be said.”
“You were needed here to help me revive Paul,” Jessica said. And she
thought: There! I said it in the precisely correct way. Revive. Thus she knows
Paul is alive and knows there is peril, all in the same word.

Chani took only a moment to calm herself, then: “What is it I may do?” She
wanted to leap at Jessica, shake her and scream: “Take me to him!” But she
waited silently for the answer.

“I suspect,” Jessica said, “that the Harkonnens have managed to send an
agent among us to poison Paul. It’s the only explanation that seems to fit. A
most unusual poison. I’ve examined his blood in the most subtle ways without
detecting it.”

Chani thrust herself forward onto her knees. “Poison? Is he in pain? Could I
. . . ”

“He is unconscious,” Jessica said. “The processes of his life are so low
that they can be detected only with the most refined techniques. I shudder to
think what could have happened had I not been the one to discover him. He
appears dead to the untrained eye.”

“You have reasons other than courtesy for summoning me,” Chani said. “I know
you, Reverend Mother. What is it you think I may do that you cannot do?”

She is brave, lovely and, ah-?h-?h, so perceptive, Jessica thought. She’d have
made a fine Bene Gesserit.

“Chani,” Jessica said, “you may find this difficult to believe, but I do not
know precisely why I sent for you. It was an instinct . . . a basic intuition.
The thought came unbidden: ‘Send for Chani.’ ”

For the first time, Chani saw the sadness in Jessica’s expression, the
unveiled pain modifying the inward stare.

“I’ve done all I know to do,” Jessica said. “That all . . . it is so far
beyond what is usually supposed as all that you would find difficulty imagining
it. Yet . . . I failed.”

“The old companion, Halleck,” Chani asked, “is it possible he’s a traitor?”

“Not Gurney,” Jessica said.

The two words carried an entire conversation, and Chani saw the searching,
the tests . . . the memories of old failures that went into this flat denial.

Chani rocked back onto her feet, stood up, smoothed her desert-?stained robe.
“Take me to him,” she said.

Jessica arose, turned through hangings on the left wall.

Chani followed, found herself in what had been a storeroom, its rock walls
concealed now beneath heavy draperies. Paul lay on a field pad against the far
wall. A single glowglobe above him illuminated his face. A black robe covered
him to the chest, leaving his arms outside it stretched along his sides. He
appeared to be unclothed under the robe. The skin exposed looked waxen, rigid.
There was no visible movement to him.

Chani suppressed the desire to dash forward, throw herself across him. She
found her thoughts, instead, going to her son — Leto. And she realized in this
instant that Jessica once had faced such a moment — her man threatened by
death, forced in her own mind to consider what might be done to save a young
son. The realization formed a sudden bond with the older woman so that Chani
reached out and clasped Jessica’s hand. The answering grip was painful in its
intensity.