Chapter 1: The Fire at the Edge of the Forest

In the center of the campsite, under a stand of tall, thin trees, eight women sit around a fire. The crackle of burning wood almost drowns out their soft voices. They have learned not to speak too loudly. Under other circumstances, that might have bothered them. But here, on this beach on an unknown Island somewhere in the vast blue of the South Pacific, they don't mind. Quiet is their shield. Quiet means survival.

The smell of burning hangs over the beach, and not just from camp-fires. Late last night, Charlie set some bushes right outside the beach camp ablaze, and for a few terrifying moments it seemed that the whole site might catch fire too.

Charlie did this because he had another fight with his on-again, off-again girlfriend Claire, the young mother from Australia who lives up by Sawyer. Claire has thrown Charlie out, but he isn't taking no for an answer. He's pitched a crude pup tent as close to Claire's shelter as possible. There he sits just out of earshot, staring and glaring at her as she goes about her business.

Because he stays on the beach's east end, the women don't make a fuss. Even so, they keep their eyes open, in case he comes around.


There is always work in the women's circle for hands that want it.

Sometimes the Korean woman Sun joins them. When asked how she knew so much about the Island's plants, if she had worked in a greenhouse or nursery, she said no, she hadn't known anything before she came here. Her apartment in Seoul had no living plants. She liked cut flowers, but what woman didn't?

Shortly after the crash, Sun had stood in the clearing which eventually became her garden, and it came to her at once what plants to put in, and how to care for them. She couldn't explain it. She just knew.

The women looked at each other, nodding. Knowing. It had happened to them, too.

It was Sun who showed them the soap plant. Crushed into a paste, mixed with some wood ashes, coconut cream, and a few other things, it made a pretty passable soap. It didn't lather up, but it got off the dirt and sweat, and you smelled delicious besides.

Soap was money, too. Half a coconut shell of the stuff would buy two large fish, especially after Sawyer's price for the rapidly-dwindling supply of shaving cream grew too steep.

Hands and tongues move in rhythm. One woman scoops out a coconut shell without cracking it, and then smooths the edges to form a useful, durable bowl. Others crush soap plant leaves, while two women weave rugs made from scraps of tattered Oceanic Airlines blankets.

The youngest of the group, an Indonesian girl in her late teens named Sirrah, was once a university student in Sydney. Now she twists rags and knots them into strips, while an older woman called Kathy loops the strips together. The resulting thick rug will be stronger and more durable than the original material from which it is made.

Just like them.


On this late morning, the women talk about last night's fire.

"Charlie's not going to let her leave him."

"Not surprising."

"She should have sent him packing long ago."

"They always take them back, don't they?"

"I know I did. Until I got smart."

"Claire hasn't been right since she disappeared. Since before the baby came."

"Do you believe him when he said that there was danger?"

"The only danger to that baby is him."

"Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!" Kathy waves her hands around for effect, rolling her eyes.

The women laugh with low, knowing chuckles.

"Yeah, there's always a danger when they don't get what they want."

A lean, dark woman named Shana sands the edge of a coconut shell with a dark grey stone. "She was really all right, until she started taking up with him."

"You were friends at first, weren't you?"

"Before we lost the fuselage, yeah."

"I remember," says the willowy blonde called Faith, in her soft middle-South drawl. "You and Kate and her. You sorted through the luggage." Faith doesn't live in the women's camp. She and her boyfriend Craig share a tent at the edge of the clearing where the beach's trees yield to jungle. But she joins in every day with busy hands and tongues, while Craig fishes or checks his snares.

The women have talked several times about inviting Claire to live in their camp. But nothing has ever come of it.

Before Shannon was cut down by Ana Lucia's bullet, she told them the story of Charlie and the fish, how she had lounged on her beach towel the whole time, and he could no more fish than she could cook a Christmas turkey. Then, when Hurley threw his spear into the water in disgust, it stuck straight up in the water, and on the end there wriggled a red fish. Hurley had tossed it to Charlie as if he himself didn't need or want it.

That was the fish which a grinning Charlie had brought to Shannon. The women had laughed until their sides ached, some screaming with laughter. That was when Sawyer growled at them to keep it down, and gave them the name that stuck. Girl Scout Camp, he had called them. They were worse than a bunch of damn Girl Scouts with their yapping and hooting and hollering.

Later, Kathy said that it was a compliment.

Now Sawyer sometimes comes to their fire to trade pins or buttons, or just genteel insults. The rest of the beach camp mostly ignores them, unless somebody wants something.

Shannon has been dead and buried exactly a week. Her lover Sayid refused their offer to prepare Shannon's body, although he did take a blanket for a shroud.

Ana Lucia has enough sense not to come anywhere near the women's fire, though. Her friend Libby didn't taken the hint at first. Libby seemed oblivious to the cold stares, the stopped conversations. Then she finally got the message, and avoided them, skirting around their shelters to get to her own.

The loss of Shannon is bitter. She and her brother Boone had shared a tent, until Boone died up at the "rape caves." Shannon always blamed Locke for her brother's death, and even now the women still look askance at Locke, who never comes near them.

When she wasn't sunning herself, Shannon would spend the day with the Girl Scouts, and not only if she and Sayid had a fight. The women at the camp told Shannon the same thing they'd told Faith after she'd hooked up with Craig: You always have a seat at our fire. You're always welcome, as long as the guy's not an asshole.

Sometimes Shannon would even bring a rolled-up blanket and her little green faux-alligator bag filled with what was left of her cosmetics. Then, the laughter and talk would go on far into the night.

Until Ana Lucia shot her. By accident, as she claimed.

Now, on this morning, the women as a group gaze over to where Claire stands ankle-deep in the surf, bouncing her baby, talking to Hurley. An air of peace rises up whenever they are together. As Hurley tells her a story, he illustrates with his hands, and she looks on, rapt with interest.

"Wish I was a clam in the sand. Wonder what they're talking about."

"Ha, not a week ago, you could do a count-down. Five, four, three, two, and before you'd hit nought, Charlie would tear-ass across the beach, trying to bust up that little convo."

"Not today. Did you see his face this morning?"

"Locke popped him pretty good."

"Never thought I'd say anything in Locke's favor."

"Wanker deserved it."

"Jack stitched him up. Then Charlie had the nerve to ask me for some salve. I told him to piss off."

"I dunno, ladies. Claire's been cozying up to Old Baldy. From Charlie to Locke, that seems like going from the frying pan to the fire."

"He's creepy." Other voices murmur in assent.

"Good thing we didn't take him up on those knives."

Locke had given away some of his vast cache of knives to certain people, but not without a price. Just like Sawyer, Locke liked it when people owed him. In those terrible early days, the women had watched, bitter, as other people cut fruit or cord with no effort.

Then, two miles down the beach, a middle-aged Aussie named Janice had found obsidian. Soon after, a man called Brian found the heavy stone called basalt. The men broke off chunks of the volcanic glass with basalt, then fashioned the fragments into knives and small axes. The obsidian was so sharp it would cut hair.

When Brian asked Janice how she'd known where to look for obsidian, she shrugged. She didn't know. It just seemed like a good idea to look there.

Now the women owe nothing to Locke.

Libby sits under her tarp with her hands wrapped around her knees. She hasn't bothered to put up walls, or maybe she doesn't know how. Ana Lucia certainly hasn't helped her. In fact, Ana Lucia hasn't spoken five words to Libby since the day Shannon died. Well, if Ana Lucia isn't going to help, neither are the Girl Scouts.

"Looks like someone else isn't too happy with Claire's tête-à-tête."

For Libby stares over at Hurley and Claire, her eyes narrowed, a sour expression on her face.

"Sorry, Kathy," someone murmurs to the heavy-set blonde woman. Everyone knows how Kathy feels, and everyone is also well aware that Hurley doesn't know Kathy's alive. No, that's not right. Hurley pays attention to everyone on the beach, and if even one person is missing, he never forgets it. But that's not the kind of feeling Kathy wants.

Kathy's voice is tinged with embarrassment. "I never should have brought that up."

A chorus rises, objects, tries to soothe. "No, no, it's okay, we were just playing a silly game."

"No one wanted to see you hurt."

Kathy brushes it all away. "Oh, think nothing of it. It was just a silly game."

In the first week after the crash, a weird wind from the sea had carried the pieces of the fuselage away, and forced everyone to move to a new camp down the beach. Days of dragging luggage and chunks of metal had left the women too exhausted to sleep. Instead, they played a game called, "Who Would You Shack Up With on a Desert Island?" Those who didn't want to answer had to gather an armload of fruit or firewood the next morning.

Since Kathy said that she'd rather get two armloads of wood than answer, everyone else went ahead of her. Shana named Sawyer, while Faith picked Craig, because she had her eye on him from the start. A couple women mentioned Sayid, which gave rise to a small chorus of agreement.

Then it was Sirrah's turn. "No one," she said. After they were rescued, if her father found out she wasn't a virgin, he'd probably kill her. Even if she had been stranded on a deserted island.

In the stunned silence which followed, Kathy announced that she was going to take her turn after all.

To everyone's surprise, she picked Hurley. They gave her quizzical looks, not because anyone disliked him, but because of how Kathy had spent the last ten years of her summer vacations. There was this summer festival in the Midwest, she had told them, where she had learned to make camp, build fires, cook outdoors, use what was lying around instead of relying on stuff from the plane.

One other thing. Pretty much everyone at the festival was a woman who liked other women. And so was she.

By now, of course, no one thinks twice about it. Back then though, when the women played their game, Kathy surprised them all by naming Hurley.


The sun moves towards its zenith, leaving the women's camp in shadow. Anyone looking in in their direction from the beach will see only dim figures in partial darkness. The women return to the work spread out before them on the grassy sand.

Down at the beach, Hurley and Claire are still talking.

"She'd have done better to stick with him," says a small blonde woman named Sylvie, so small and slight in build that she looks like a teenager, even though she's almost Kathy's age. Her grey hat is cut from a piece of fleece, twisted up into little rabbit ears.

"What happened, do you think?"

"Dunno. Remember the memorial service? It was Hurley and Claire's idea."

"Boone's, too."

"They did a great job with it, all three of them."

"I cried for a whole day afterwards."

"I wanted to kick that jackass behind me, who said it was like listening to somebody read the phone book."

"Remember that prick next to us? 'Hey, she's got nice legs, what's she doing up there with Fatso?'"

The talk subsides to murmurs and disgusted looks.

"You know, if Claire would have shacked up with Hurley, most of this shit wouldn't have happened."

"This shit with Charlie, you mean."

"He would have just moved on down the line, to someone else."

"Someone who would have fallen for his crap."

Shy, sweet Meredith hasn't said much up till now. She twists a short lock of dyed-black hair as she speaks. "You know, maybe we should have—"

They know where she's going with this.

"Are you kidding?"

"We couldn't—"

"Charlie would have been hanging around here all the time, then. Because he never leaves her alone."

"You saw how Kate chased him away from Claire's tent."

"His guitar case wound up right out there, on the sand."

"Yeah, and none of those big strapping men stepped in, did they?"

"We know what that's about."

"Locke."

"He thinks he's next in line."

"Screw him."

"No thanks!" Laughter rises like a wave, drawing Libby's attention. They stare back at her and soon she heads for the beach.

"Five... four... three... two..."

"Cock-block!"

"You called it."

Libby joins Claire and Hurley at the surf-line.

"Look at his face."

"No more sweet Hurley smile."

"Hey, Kathy. Back then, in our game. Why'd you pick him?"

"Besides the obvious? Because I figured that if I had half a chance of surviving, it'd be with him. Hey, cut me some slack. I didn't know you ladies then."

Their laughter passes over like birds crossing the noon sky.

"Not the great white hunter, or the witch doctor, or the Marlboro Man?"

"Sheesh, Faith, you're as bad as Sawyer."

"I'm a Southern gal. It comes naturally."

"Thought you said you were a quarter Cherokee."

"There are still Cherokee in the South."

"So, Kathy, why him? I mean, for surviving?"

Kathy ponders this before answering. "I dunno. He watches out for people, is all."

"I know what you mean," Sirrah says. "His eyes are kind."

Claire walks off, leaving Hurley alone with Libby on the beach.

"Someone's not happy."

"What happened to those two, anyway? For awhile, it seemed like—"

"My opinion, it started when Claire got heat-sick."

"Heat-sick?"

"Remember, we had that heat wave where the clouds just sat overhead, but it didn't rain?"

"I thought I was going to collapse, and I wasn't nine months pregnant, either."

"She and Hurley made a spot down by our first camp, remember?"

"But then they stuck her in that infirmary tent, the one Dr. Jack rigged up."

"A target-rich environment, in other words."

"In Charlie swoops."

"Claiming his territory."

"Then Hurley moved up to the caves with Jack. And Claire stayed here."

"Big mistake."

"What, Claire staying here? Shannon nailed it. Rape caves."

"No, I mean, why did Hurley split? If he liked her and all that."

"Maybe he wanted to leave it up to her."

"Maybe."

"Hurley shouldn't have gone up there."

Silence falls over the group until it's broken by Meredith's nervous voice. "That was when we should have, you know, asked her. After Hurley left."

"We didn't have to ask Shannon."

"There's a big difference. Shannon knew Boone was being a jerk."

"Yeah, she didn't need to have it spelled out for her."

Voices of objection and agreement rise and fall. Kathy lets it go on for awhile and then breaks in. "No, Meredith is right. That was when we should have asked her. But now..." Her voice trails off.

"It was that stupid trick with the empty jar that did it."

A disgusted groan rises in chorus.

"Could you believe that?"

"Christ." This is said in real contempt.

"Imaginary peanut butter."

"Sometimes you don't have to construct the metaphors. Reality provides them all on its own."

"Well, it worked. It got her off the beach."

"Up to the rape caves."

"With him."

"Hurley was at the caves too, right?"

"Yup."

"So why didn't Hurley—"

"I don't know."

"I wasn't up there, myself. No way."

"We could, you know, walk down now and pay her a visit."

"Go ahead, if you want."

"But Charlie, he's not welcome here."

"Come on, we all agree about that. This is about Claire, though. And the baby."

"It's up to her."

"Well, yeah, of course. But if we were back home, would you just dump her? Hell, you'd be giving her the number of the local women's shelter."

"If you haven't noticed, we're not at home. No cops. No shelters."

"Not that they were ever worth a damn in a situation like this."

"Be that as it may. At least y'all don't feel that way about Craig."

"Or Brian."

Shana sets down her basalt sanding block, and her voice has a sharp edge. "We're not in Kansas anymore, girls. We have to take care of ourselves, because nobody else is going to. So yeah. Remember what we agreed. If a woman shares our fire, and she's with a guy, he better not be an asshole."

"You know, it was interesting with Sayid. He never gave us any crap when Shannon hung around up here."

"I guess he was used to it."

"Used to what?"

"Women having their own circles. Their own space."

They ponder that for a moment as they watch Hurley and Libby part ways at the shoreline.

"Now with him, that'd be different."

"Women scare him, though."

"Not all women. He used to avoid Kate, but not any more. They're tight now."

"I helped him a bit with the manifest. He's cool, as long as you don't make goo-goo eyes at him."

"Think he's gay?"

The subject has come up more than once. Finally Sylvie says, "Nah. You've seen how he looks at Claire."

"Libby, too."

Once more, looks of sympathy dart towards Kathy, and a few women say that they're sorry.

"Hey, I'm over it."

"Oh, please."

"Don't kid a kidder."

"No, really," Kathy says. "Besides, I saw his date of birth on the flight list. If I'd gotten an early enough start, I'd be old enough to be his mom. So no, it's okay. Really."

"So what is it?"

"Huh?"

"His birthday."

"Something in December. 1978."

"Yeah, too young for you, for sure." A few women laugh, but not unkindly.

"See, I told you," says Kathy.

From the beach, Libby heads towards her shelter.

An iron-haired British woman named Jane says, "Somebody else is a bit old for Hurley, too."

"Sshhh, she's coming over here. She'll hear you."

"Doesn't she have anything to do around here? I mean, really. When she's not chasing him around, she's—"

"Sitting on her ass, sulking."

"Have you seen that look she gives people when their heads are turned?"

"Yeah, like a bad smell."

"Quiet!"

Libby lies down in her shelter, back towards the women's camp. They soon forget her when a tall, rangy figure saunters in their direction.

"Oh, joy," Kathy mutters. "Here comes Sawyer."

(continued)