Muad'Dib tells us in "A Time of Reflection" that his first collisions with Arrakeen necessities were the true beginnings of his education. He learned then how to pole the sand for its weather, learned the language of the wind's needles stinging his skin, learned how the nose can buzz with sand-itch and how to gather his body's precious moisture around him to guard it and preserve it. As his eyes assumed the blue of the Ibad, he learned the Chakobsa way.
-Stilgar's preface to "Muad'Dib, the Man" by the Princess Irulan Stilgar's troop returning to the sietch with its two strays from the desert climbed out of the basin in the waning light of the first moon. The robed figures hurried with the smell of home in their nostrils. Dawn's gray line behind them was brightest at the notch in their horizon-calendar that marked the middle of autumn, the month of Caprock.
Wind-raked dead leaves strewed the cliffbase where the sietch children had been gathering them, but the sounds of the troop's passage (except for occasional blunderings by Paul and his mother) could not be distinguished from the natural sounds of the night.
Paul wiped sweat-caked dust from his forehead, felt a tug at his arm, heard Chani's voice hissing. "Do as I told you: bring the fold of your hood down over your forehead! Leave only the eyes exposed. You waste moisture."
A whispered command behind them demanded silence: "The desert hears you!"
A bird chirruped from the rocks high above them.
The troop stopped, and Paul sensed abrupt tension.
There came a faint thumping from the rocks, a sound no louder than mice jumping in the sand.
Again, the bird chirruped.
A stir passed through the troop's ranks. And again, the mouse-thumping pecked its way across the sand.
Once more, the bird chirruped.
The troop resumed its climb up into a crack in the rocks, but there was a stillness of breath about the Fremen now that filled Paul with caution, and he noted covert glances toward Chani, the way she seemed to withdraw, pulling in upon herself.
There was rock underfoot now, a faint gray swishing of robes around them, and Paul sensed a relaxing of discipline, but still that quiet-of-the-person about Chani and the others. He followed a shadow shape--up steps, a turn, more steps, into a tunnel, past two moisture-sealed doors and into a globelighted narrow passage with yellow rock walls and ceiling.
All around him, Paul saw the Fremen throwing back their hoods, removing nose plugs, breathing deeply. Someone sighed. Paul looked for Chani, found that she had left his side. He was hemmed in by a press of robed bodies. Someone jostled him, said, "Excuse me, Usul. What a crush! It's always this way."
On his left, the narrow bearded face of the one called Farok turned toward Paul. The stained eyepits and blue darkness of eyes appeared even darker under the yellow globes. "Throw off your hood, Usul," Farok said. "You're home." And he helped Paul, releasing the hood catch, elbowing a space around them.
Paul slipped out his nose plugs, swung the mouth baffle aside. The odor of the place assailed him: unwashed bodies, distillate esters of reclaimed wastes, everywhere the sour effluvia of humanity with, over it all, a turbulence of spice and spicelike harmonics.
"Why are we waiting, Farok?" Paul asked.
"For the Reverend Mother, I think. You heard the message--poor Chani."
Poor Chani? Paul asked himself. He looked around, wondering where she was, where his mother had got to in all this crush.
Farok took a deep breath. "The smells of home," he said.
Paul saw that the man was enjoying the stink of this air, that there was no irony in his tone. He heard his mother cough then, and her voice came back to him through the press of the troop: "How rich the odors of your sietch, Stilgar.
I see you do much working with the spice . . . you make paper . . . plastics . .
. and isn't that chemical explosives?"
"You know this from what you smell?" It was another man's voice.
And Paul realized she was speaking for his benefit, that she wanted him to make a quick acceptance of this assault on his nostrils.
There came a buzz of activity at the head of the troop and a prolonged indrawn breath that seemed to pass through the Fremen, and Paul heard hushed voices back down the line: "It's true then--Liet is dead."
Liet, Paul thought. Then: Chani, daughter of Liet. The pieces fell together in his mind. Liet was the Fremen name of the planetologist.
Paul looked at Farok, asked: "Is it the Liet known as Kynes?"
"There is only one Liet," Farok said.
Paul turned, stared at the robed back of a Fremen in front of him. Then Liet-Kynes is dead, he thought.
"It was Harkonnen treachery," someone hissed. "They made it seem an accident
. . . lost in the desert . . . a 'thopter crash . . . "
Paul felt a burst of anger. The man who had befriended them, helped save them from the Harkonnen hunters, the man who had sent his Fremen cohorts searching for two strays in the desert . . . another victim of the Harkonnens.
"Does Usul hunger yet for revenge?" Farok asked.
Before Paul could answer, there came a low call and the troop swept forward into a wider chamber, carrying Paul with them. He found himself in an open space confronted by Stilgar and a strange woman wearing a flowing wraparound garment of brilliant orange and green. Her arms were bare to the shoulders, and he could see she wore no stillsuit. Her skin was a pale olive. Dark hair swept back from her high forehead, throwing emphasis on sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose between the dense darkness of her eyes.
She turned toward him, and Paul saw golden rings threaded with water tallies dangling from her ears.
"This bested my Jamis?" she demanded.
"Be silent, Harah," Stilgar said. "It was Jamis' doing--he invoked the tahaddi al-burhan."
"He's not but a boy!" she said. She gave her head a sharp shake from side to side, setting the water tallies to jingling. "My children made fatherless by another child? Surely, 'twas an accident!"
"Usul, how many years have you?" Stilgar asked.
