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Somewhere
,
in
a
world
not
-
of
-
the
-
dream
,
there
was
a
hint
of
motion
,
the
cry
of
a
nightbird
.
I
dream
,
Paul
reassured
himself
.
It
’
s
the
spice
meal
.
Still
,
there
was
about
him
a
feeling
of
abandonment
.
He
wondered
if
it
might
be
possible
that
his
ruh
-
spirit
had
slipped
over
somehow
into
the
world
where
the
Fremen
believed
he
had
his
true
existence
—
into
the
alam
al
-
mithal
,
the
world
of
similitudes
,
that
metaphysical
realm
where
all
physical
limitations
were
removed
.
And
he
knew
fear
at
the
thought
of
such
a
place
,
because
removal
of
all
limitations
meant
removal
of
all
points
of
reference
.
In
the
landscape
of
a
myth
he
could
not
orient
himself
and
say
:
“
I
am
I
because
I
am
here
.
”
His
mother
had
said
once
:
“
The
people
are
divided
,
some
of
them
,
in
how
they
think
of
you
.
”
I
must
be
waking
from
the
dream
,
Paul
told
himself
.
For
this
had
happened
—
these
words
from
his
mother
,
the
Lady
Jessica
who
was
now
a
Reverend
Mother
of
the
Fremen
,
these
words
had
passed
through
reality
.
Jessica
was
fearful
of
the
religious
relationship
between
himself
and
the
Fremen
,
Paul
knew
.
She
didn
’
t
like
the
fact
that
people
of
both
sietch
and
graben
referred
to
Muad
’
Dib
as
Him
.
And
she
went
questioning
among
the
tribes
,
sending
out
her
Sayyadina
spies
,
collecting
their
answers
and
brooding
on
them
.
She
had
quoted
a
Bene
Gesserit
proverb
to
him
:
“
When
religion
and
politics
travel
in
the
same
cart
,
the
riders
believe
nothing
can
stand
in
their
way
.
Their
movement
become
headlong
—
faster
and
faster
and
faster
.
They
put
aside
all
thought
of
obstacles
and
forget
that
a
precipice
does
not
show
itself
to
the
man
in
a
blind
rush
until
it
’
s
too
late
.
”
Paul
recalled
that
he
had
sat
there
in
his
mother
’
s
quarters
,
in
the
inner
chamber
shrouded
by
dark
hangings
with
their
surfaces
covered
by
woven
patterns
out
of
Fremen
mythology
.
He
had
sat
there
,
hearing
her
out
,
noting
the
way
she
was
always
observing
—
even
when
her
eyes
were
lowered
.
Her
oval
face
had
new
lines
in
it
at
the
corners
of
the
mouth
,
but
the
hair
was
still
like
polished
bronze
.
The
wide
-
set
green
eyes
,
though
,
hid
beneath
their
overcasting
of
spice
-
imbued
blue
.
“
The
Fremen
have
a
simple
,
practical
religion
,
”
he
said
.
“
Nothing
about
religion
is
simple
,
”
she
warned
.
