Chapter Seven
It was a relief not to have to say anything. At Boone's funeral, Sayid had felt compelled to speak. No one had raised a voice for Shannon's brother, and she herself could not manage to. Sayid would not endure the thought of that body swallowed by the earth without comment. He knew the memory of silence would pain Shannon in the days to come; she would feel as though Boone's life had been regarded as nothing because he had died among strangers.
There had been that motivation, coupled with the acute sense that Shannon held him responsible for being unable to say goodbye. Sayid thought then, as he stood by the grave, that Shannon would not continue to look upon him with affection. She would think only of the fact that while her brother lay bleeding to death, Sayid had kept her away, stealing kisses for himself in the moonlight. The taste of him, he feared, had forever soured.
So he had spoken: for her, for what she had lost, and for what he had lost too. Yet Shannon had proven him wrong. In time, she had shown that she could both forgive and give. And after she had given herself, he could not even give her a proper farewell; the words had caught, and he had fled her grave.
Thank Allah he did not have to speak now. He'd had enough of eulogies. Locke gave the address. There were no awkward pauses at this funeral, no checked emotions, no uncomfortable spectators keeping their careful distance from the grieving. No one had tied his or her heart to this man. Eko had been respected, and he had been liked, but he had not been loved, not here. Who knew who had loved him, and when, or where. But now, there was only a contemplative bald man musing aloud about a priest with a stick. It was at once peaceful and peculiar. Sayid wasn't quite sure how to feel, so he tried not to feel at all.
"When the hatch exploded," Locke eulogized, "your prayer stick fell out of a tree right on top of me." Sayid glanced at Locke. Of course John would take that as a sign. "So Sayid and I went out to get it 'cause it didn't feel right to bury you without it."
That had been the grand secret Locke had felt the need to keep to himself, until Sayid had pried it from him. John, Sayid thought, hoarded every one of his plans, however minor, as though sharing it would somehow diminish its consequence. That was why it had been such a surprise to see him issue a general invitation to the Pearl. But Sayid now perceived that Locke had only been playing at inclusiveness. In the end, John would do what John thought best, and anyone who wished might trail after him—indeed, Locke would probably enjoy the company of disciples—but any who followed must not expect too much information.
Yet hadn't Sayid been just as secretive? He told himself that his silences were different: they had always been born of practical necessity, not of some need to inflate his self-importance. He had never attempted, like John, to appear profound; he had only struggled to fulfill delicate tasks aimed at the preservation of the community. Yet silence hadn't helped him to ensnare Michael, had it? It hadn't brought his ambush to fruition. It had resulted in nothing but the capture of his friends and the near death of a woman and her unborn child. He could deceive others, but how long could he continue to deceive himself? Yet how he could admit his impotence either? If he could not craft a scheme that would lead to the rescue of those he had betrayed, what worth remained within him?
Locke continued, "I'd like to think that you died for a reason, Mr. Eko."
Sayid wanted to think so, too. He wanted to think that every strand that had unraveled in the past two months had done so for a reason; that the threads weren't fraying into chaos, that there was some anchor of hope to keep them all from drifting beyond the dark horizon. But was it possible he had already pulled that anchor up? Had he mistaken it for a chain?
"Just hope it's not too long before we find out what the heck it might be."
Locke sounded so casual. He had seen the thing pound Eko to the ground; he had seen Death at play, and yet he could speak almost with…merriment. It was odd. John was odd. Desmond was odd. They were all odd. This island was odd. The hatches were odd. It was all…so…ridiculously…
Sayid shook the foreign daze from his mind. He could not be overcome by the surreal. He must approach events as if they were sensible, tangible. He must keep pressing on, whatever strange shape or shade the mist around him assumed. Anything less was surrender.
"Rest in peace, Mr. Eko. Thank you for helping me find my…"
Locke's sudden trail off scattered the fog that had fallen on Sayid's mind. He looked at the hunter, who was reading something on the stick. Locke appeared momentarily stunned, and then he drew his eyes upward.
Sayid followed his gaze and beheld nothing but the distant hills bespeckled with trees that swayed in a quiet, rhythmic dance beneath a simple, blue sky. It pained him that he could not see what Locke so clearly saw.
