Chapter Four
"He who learns must suffer.
And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart,
and in our despair, against our own will,
comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."
Aeschylus
Tonight Sayid slept, and he dreamed of women: dark and fair, tall and short, courageous and needy, friends and family and lovers. He dreamed of their graceful hands.
He dreamed first of his mother, of her hand upon his father's as they stood beside her bed. He dreamed he heard again her dying wish for him: "Find a wife, Sayid. Rejoice in her youth and love her faithfully. Protect your family. Honor my memory."
He dreamed of Nadia, Nadia the child, the charming, wealthy girl whose fluid movements and tinkling laugh arrested him. He dreamed of her hand upon his back as she shoved him in the dirt.
He dreamed of Nadia, Nadia the woman, whose wearied, hopeful face still haunted him. He dreamed of her hand upon his hand, of the inexplicable emotion that accompanied her touch, and of her pleading eyes.
He dreamed of Kate, of her hand upon his lips, of her bittersweet goodbye as he walked away alone.
He dreamed of Shannon, of her hand upon his arousal, of his name upon her lips, of her breath against his ear. He dreamed of telling her, "You are not worthless." He dreamed he was not worthless too.
He dreamed of Ana, of her hand upon the blade, of the blade upon his bonds, and of the great weight of freedom.
He dreamed of Sun, of her hand upon his hand, of her shoulder against his shoulder, and of her insistence that there was no hell.
He dreamed of Rose, of her hand upon the crucifix, and of the crucifix about her neck, gleaming beneath the pale light of the moon in the midst of the quiet graveyard.
He wept while he dreamed, as he had never wept awake. And when all their faces and hands had faded from his vision, he arose. He walked to the signal fire and sat before its desperate, crying flame as it crackled unanswered in the night.
He looked up at the stars…all those many stars that had burned on long before he was born and would burn on long after he was dead. He thought of Abraham, and of how Allah had told him to number the stars if he could.
He thought, too, of Hagar and Ishmael, expelled from the camp of Abraham, stumbling in the desert in the night, beneath those same stars. He thought of how Hagar hid her son underneath a bush, sobbing, "I cannot watch him die." And he thought, at last, of how Allah had sent an angel to comfort the weeping woman, of how the angel had said, "Do not be afraid. Lift up the boy, and take him by the hand, and I will make of him a great nation."
Sayid closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He no longer fought to suppress the hope that clawed its way again to the surface of his soul. He allowed himself, instead, to yearn for someone to cry, "I cannot watch him die," to take him by the hand, to lift him up once more and make him stand.