Now is the terrible moment, she thought. He has killed a man in clear superiority of mind and muscle. He must not grow to enjoy such a victory.
She forced herself through the last of the troop and into a small open space where two bearded Fremen were helping Paul into his stillsuit.
Jessica stared at her son. Paul's eyes were bright. He breathed heavily, permitting the ministrations to his body rather than helping them.
"Him against Jamis and not a mark on him," one of the men muttered.
Chani stood at one side, her eyes focused on Paul. Jessica saw the girl's excitement, the admiration in the elfin face.
It must be done now and swiftly, Jessica thought.
She compressed ultimate scorn into her voice and manner, said: "Well-l-l, now--how does it feel to be a killer?"
Paul stiffened as though he had been struck. He met his mother's cold glare and his face darkened with a rush of blood. Involuntarily he glanced toward the place on the cavern floor where Jamis had lain.
Stilgar pressed through to Jessica's side, returning from the cave depths where the body of Jamis had been taken. He spoke to Paul in a bitter, controlled
tone: "When the time comes for you to call me out and try for my burda, do not think you will play with me the way you played with Jamis."
Jessica sensed the way her own words and Stilgar's sank into Paul, doing their harsh work on the boy. The mistake these people made--it served a purpose now. She searched the faces around them as Paul was doing, seeing what he saw.
Admiration, yes, and fear . . . and in some--loathing. She looked at Stilgar, saw his fatalism, knew how the fight had seemed to him.
Paul looked at his mother. "You know what it was," he said.
She heard the return to sanity, the remorse in his voice. Jessica swept her glance across the troop, said: "Paul has never before killed a man with a naked blade."
Stilgar faced her, disbelief in his face.
"I wasn't playing with him," Paul said. He pressed in front of his mother, straightening his robe, glanced at the dark place of Jamis' blood on the cavern floor. "I did not want to kill him."
Jessica saw belief come slowly to Stilgar, saw the relief in him as he tugged at his beard with a deeply veined hand. She heard muttering awareness spread through the troop.
"That's why y' asked him to yield," Stilgar said. "I see. Our ways are different, but you'll see the sense in them. I thought we'd admitted a scorpion into our midst." He hesitated, then: "And I shall not call you lad the more."
A voice from the troop called out: "Needs a naming, Stil."
Stilgar nodded, tugging at his beard. "I see strength in you . . . like the strength beneath a pillar." Again he paused, then: "You shall be known among us as Usul, the base of the pillar. This is your secret name, your troop name. We of Sietch Tabr may use it, but none other may so presume . . . Usul."
Murmuring went through the troop: "Good choice, that . . . strong . . .
bring us luck." And Jessica sensed the acceptance, knowing she was included in it with her champion. She was indeed Sayyadina.
"Now, what name of manhood do you choose for us to call you openly?" Stilgar asked.
Paul glanced at his mother, back to Stilgar. Bits and pieces of this moment registered on his prescient memory, but he felt the differences as though they were physical, a pressure forcing him through the narrow door of the present.
"How do you call among you the little mouse, the mouse that jumps?" Paul asked, remembering the pop-hop of motion at Tuono Basin. He illustrated with one hand.
A chuckle sounded through the troop.
"We call that one Muad'Dib," Stilgar said.
Jessica gasped. It was the name Paul had told her, saying that the Fremen would accept them and call him thus. She felt a sudden fear of her son and for him.
Paul swallowed. He felt that he played a part already played over countless times in his mind . . . yet . . . there were differences. He could see himself perched on a dizzying summit, having experienced much and possessed of a profound store of knowledge, but all around him was abyss.
And again he remembered the vision of fanatic legions following the green and black banner of the Atreides, pillaging and burning across the universe in the name of their prophet Muad'Dib.
That must not happen, he told himself.
"Is that the name you wish, Muad'Dib?" Stilgar asked.
"I am an Atreides," Paul whispered, and then louder: "It's not right that I give up entirely the name my father gave me. Could I be known among you as Paul-Muad'Dib?"
"You are Paul-Muad'Dib," Stilgar said.
And Paul thought: That was in no vision of mine. I did a different thing.
But he felt that the abyss remained all around him.
Again a murmuring response went through the troop as man turned to man:
"Wisdom with strength . . . Couldn't ask more . . . It's the legend for sure . .
. Lisan al-Gaib . . . Lisan al-Gaib . . . "
"I will tell you a thing about your new name," Stilgar said. "The choice pleases us. Muad'Dib is wise in the ways of the desert. Muad'Dib creates his own water. Muad'Dib hides from the sun and travels in the cool night. Muad'Dib is fruitful and multiplies over the land. Muad'Dib we call 'instructor-of-boys.'
