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,
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.”
“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.
, the Atreides called it in their training manuals.
People are subordinate to government, but the ruled influence the rulers.
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.”
a fool, wasn’t he, Duncan?”
Idaho’s throat tightened with suppressed grief.
“Such a fool!” Alia gasped, her control breaking. “He’ll live forever while we must die!”
“Alia, don’t …”
“It’s just grief,” she said, voice low. “Just grief. Do you know what I must do for him? I must save the life of the Princess Irulan. That one! You should hear
grief. Wailing, giving moisture to the dead; she swears she loved him and knew it not. She reviles her Sisterhood, says she’ll spend her life teaching Paul’s children.”
“You trust her?”
“She reeks of trustworthiness!”
“Ahhh,” Idaho murmured. The final pattern unreeled before his awareness like a design on fabric. The defection of the Princess Irulan was the last step. It left the Bene Gesserit with no remaining lever against the Atreides heirs.
Alia began to sob, leaned against him, face pressed into his chest. “Ohhh, Duncan, Duncan! He’s gone!”
Idaho put his lips against her hair. “Please,” he whispered. He felt her grief mingling with his like two streams entering the same pool.
“I need you, Duncan,” she sobbed. “Love me!”
“I do,” he whispered.
She lifted her head, peered at the moon-frosted outline of his face. “I know, Duncan. Love knows love.”
Her words sent a shudder through him, a feeling of estrangement from his old self. He had come out here looking for one thing and had found another. It was as though he’d lurched into a room full of familiar people only to realize too late that he knew none of them.
She pushed away from him, took his hand. “Will you come with me, Duncan?”
“Wherever you lead,” he said.
She led him back across the qanat into the darkness at the base of the massif and its Place of Safety.
No bitter stench of funeral-still for Muad’dib.
No knell nor solemn rite to free the mind
From avaricious shadows.
He is the fool saint,
The golden stranger living forever
On the edge of reason.
Let your guard fall and he is there!
His crimson peace and sovereign pallor
Strike into our universe on prophetic webs
To the verge of a quiet glance—there!
Out of bristling star-jungles:
Mysterious, lethal, an oracle without eyes,
Catspaw of prophecy, whose voice never dies!
Shai-hulud, he awaits thee upon a strand
Where couples walk and fix, eye to eye,
The delicious ennui of love.
He strides through the long cavern of time,
Scattering the fool-self of his dream.
—THE GHOLA’S HYMN
Frank Herbert was not entirely deaf to his readership. In
, he would resurrect
Duncan Idaho in an altered form—a “ghola” named Hayt, who was cloned from the cells
of the dead man, resulting in a creature who did not have the memories of the original.