Chapter 9

"Same way anything lost gets found -- I stopped looking."

-- John Locke

As he studied the floor, Sayid listened to the sound of Sawyer, Kate, and Ana conversing in another part of the hatch. It was clear Ana was upset about not being told about the guns, and Kate was trying to reason with her. Sawyer, however, was not being in the least bit conciliatory. When Ana said something about the injustice of the secrecy, Sawyer asked, in a tone of feigned ignorance, "Do you think…could it possibly…maybe…now, you don't suppose it has anything to do with your shooting Shannon, does it?"

Sayid let their voices dissolve into the background, and after awhile he raised his eyes and searched the obscure, dark blue eyes of the priest. The Iraqi was looking for any sign of disdain, any thought of revenge. At last he asked, "Do you not hate me?"

"I hate what you did to me. But I don't know who you are now. You look like the man who tortured me. But your eyes…your eyes are not the same. How can I know I am not dreaming?"

"You are not dreaming."

Father Marcus sighed. "Why did all those people look to you back there? Why did they follow your commands without question, unless they trust themselves to your care? You must have changed."

"And are you the interrogator now, that you are so confident of your ability to read people?"

"Not an interrogator. But my vocation does require that I be able to read people." When Sayid did not respond, the priest said, "There is anger in me, yes. I am a man. But I have forgiven you."

At this, Sayid half-snorted and went to get the priest a bottle of water. Marcus took it from his hand and asked, "Why do you scoff?"

"Because it is too easy."

"What is too easy?"

"Your forgiveness," answered Sayid.

"Well, isn't that the very nature of forgiveness? It's free."

"Nothing is free. There is always a price."

"Yes," agreed the priest. "When I said forgiveness was free, I did not mean it was cheap."

Sayid motioned to the priest's bare chest. "Those are not the only marks I left. And you are not the only one I left them upon. I have at last found a kind of peace, but I am also aware that I have not yet paid the full price for my sins."

"No," said the priest, with a weak smile. "No, you have not. You could not." He took a long drought of the water. "But someone can and did."

"It is a beautiful fairytale you Christians like to tell," said Sayid, "this story of atonement. I do not mind hearing it, from time to time. But I do not see Jesus as you see him. He was a prophet, not a god. There is no intercessor. Only I can pay for what I have done. "

"You look as though you have already paid a great deal," said Marcus, again raking over Sayid's eyes with his own. "But who has time enough to pay it all?"

"Here," said Sayid, "here, on this island, there is time enough." And then the Iraqi told him what he could. He watched the hope flicker and fade from the priest's eyes when he revealed that nearly three months had passed since they had lit the signal fire, and he saw the disbelief cross his features when he told him of the Others. When he was done, and Father Marcus did not speak, Sayid asked, "Why did you become a priest?"

"After I came home from the war, I found my wife…" Marcus laughed. It was not a bitter laugh, but it was not cheerful either. "Why am I telling you this? You of all people? Well, let me just say that when home is gone, there is nowhere left to go but home. "

"You are so different," said Sayid with wonder.

"Have you spent all your time immersed in penance? Haven't you seen the way the world grinds on?" Then after a long time of silence, the priest asked, "What is your name? Your first name?"

"Sayid. You heard my friends call me by it."

The priest nodded. "Yes, I heard. I was looking for an introduction." He extended his hand. "Marcus."

Sayid eyed the hand, the suspicion not yet fully drained from his countenance, the shame still holding him back. When the priest refused to withdraw his hand, Sayid at length took it and grasped it firmly. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Marcus."

Their handshake was interrupted by Sun, who asked Sayid to come to the bedroom to help Jack. The woman was mumbling something repeatedly in Arabic, and they were afraid it might be important. They needed him to translate.

He arose and walked toward where the woman lay, but when he heard her voice, he leaned heavily against the door frame and could not make himself move on. Her face was toward the wall, but when she rolled deliriously outward, his belief was confirmed: the voice did belong to Nadia.

He walked numbly into the room and kneeled down beside her bed. He began to whisper her name and to smooth the hair back from her brow. Sun and Jack glanced at each other and watched with curiosity as he murmured to her in Arabic. They could understand only "Nadia," often repeated, and his own name, "Sayid," which he said twice. They saw him take hold of her hand and begin to raise it to his mouth as if to kiss it, but he stopped midway and stared at the wedding band around her finger. He lowered her hand and listened quietly to her speak. He then raised himself up and began to walk back to the door.

Jack blocked the doorway. "Do you know her?" he asked.

"Yes," he said. "Yes I know her. She is an Iraqi. She is not saying anything important. She is only saying the morning prayer. She must think it is morning." He closed his eyes for a moment, and then he looked up at the stark lights of the ceiling, so different from the calming glow of the fires on the beach. "I suppose it is morning now."

He stepped forward and Jack moved from his path. "Please send someone for me when she is fully conscious," Sayid said, and then he made his way back to the beach.