Chapter 11

"Love is never lost. If not reciprocated,

it will flow back and soften and purify the heart."

Washington Irving

The eight gathered supplies for the journey and agreed to wait until early morning to depart. The evening was only a few hours away, and they wouldn't be able to hike far tonight. Better to be well rested and begin the trek at dawn.

That night, the cave dwellers joined the beach camp, and all ate together around the fire. It was a farewell party of sorts, but with less jollity. Many of the survivors were reticent about the doubtful mission and had already begun to anticipate the loss of one or more of their friends.

Nadia sat by Kate, with whom she seemed most comfortable, though both remained fairly silent, listening quietly as Charlie strummed his guitar and sang. Sayid found himself sandwiched between Libby and Claire, but he could not tear his gaze from Nadia. Fortunately, she did not look at him; she stared into the fire.

"Could I borrow that?" asked the priest, gesturing to Charlie's guitar.

"You know how to play?" Charlie asked, extending Marcus the instrument.

"A bit."

"Then," said Rose, from the other side of the circle, "why not sing us a hymn? It would be a fitting farewell. Do you know any of the old Protestant ones? I'm not much for the staid Catholic stuff."

"Yes," said Marcus, beginning to strum.

When he sang, Sayid heard Claire murmur, "What a voice." Libby, on the other side of him, leaned over Sayid to whisper back to Claire, "And what a body."

At this Claire giggled. "Good," she said, with a tone of light relief. "I'm glad to know I won't be the only one going to hell for lusting after a priest."

Libby threw her head back and laughed. Sayid thought it was good to hear the sound, even if it might be a very long time before he could ever laugh again himself.

Marcus finished up his first song, and Rose asked him to sing another. No one else seemed to mind; regardless of their respective religions, they probably all thought it was rather nice to have a break from Charlie and the constant stream of insipid rock ballads.

"Let me give a little introduction to this one," said the priest. "It was written by a slave trader."

At this Rose nodded and leaned back against Bernard. She seemed to know what to expect.

"After a storm at sea, the man came to regard his ways as sinful, and he despised himself for what he had been." Marcus glanced at Sayid. The Iraqi swallowed, leaned back on his hands, and gazed into the fire. "But then…he came to this understanding."

Marcus began to sing that old Protestant standard, Amazing Grace. Over half the camp joined in on the first line, but when they got to the third--"I once was lost but now am found"—several voices dropped out as the survivors contemplated the grim reality that they were probably never going to be rescued from the island.

Sayid had traveled to many countries; he had of course heard the words before, but he did not know them well enough to sing them, and even if he had, he certainly would not have joined in a hymn of praise to a Christian god. But he listened, and he considered thoughtfully the lyrics, which did not fail to speak to him.

"'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear," Marcus and others sang, "And grace my fears relieved."

Sayid thought his own fear—the crippling terror that his past sins would render him worthless—had indeed been relieved after his night of prayer. It was not that his outpouring to Allah had made him think he would henceforth be free from suffering the consequences of his past deeds; it was only that he now felt he could endure such consequences as they came, accept their justice, and yet still live, still press on to work and care for the good of others. That was what he had meant when he had told Marcus that he had found a kind of peace.

"Through many dangers, toils and snares," Marcus continued to lead, "I have already come; 'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, And grace will lead me home."

"Just one more," Rose begged when he was done. Marcus shook his head and returned the guitar to a somewhat envious-looking Charlie, but as Charlie grabbed hold of the guitar, Claire called from across the fire, "Yes, please, one more Father. You have such a beautiful voice."

Marcus glanced across to the figure, his eyes flickering quickly over her frame. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Claire."

"All right then, Claire. One more." He took back the guitar from a displeased Charlie, whose jealousy was doubled now that Claire had made the request. "Now this one," Marcus said, "was written by a father of four. After his wife and four daughters were in a disastrous shipwreck, he received a telegram from his wife that bore only two crushing words: 'Saved alone."

At this a number of survivors gasped, and many lowered their eyes. Some perhaps felt tears spring to them. No doubt all were thinking of their own plane wreck, and of those who had been lost to them forever. Sayid was thinking at once of Shannon slumped in the rain and of the golden gleam of Nadia's wedding band. He glanced at Nadia and thought she must be thinking of her husband. Her elbows were against her legs, and she was leaning forward, the weight of her head born against her hands. He could not see her face.

He had been thinking Nadia was being rash, not entirely unlike Ana Lucia. But his heart softened to her cause now. It was an unfit comparison. Nadia was entering the fray with an aggressive yet disciplined will. And those she brought with her would come not out of fear, but willingly, each for his or her own reason. Locke was invigorated by the hunt and perhaps a little fascinated by Nadia. Michael wanted his son back. Marcus probably felt a need to be of service to those he had taken with him in the propeller jet, even if he did not know them well. Kate, Sayid thought, wanted to forget something, and danger was a powerful force to drive out memory. Eko was drawn by that stern mistress Duty. Ana wanted to prove she was not weak. No, that wasn't giving her enough credit, Sayid admitted to himself. It was that, partly, but she also cared about her own. He had seen enough to know that, and he suspected that Ana hoped to find the children who had been abducted from the tail end.

And Sayid…what of Sayid himself? Had Nadia manipulated him into coming, played upon his guilt to earn his aid? He did not like to think so. But if she had, she had done so because he had been loathe to give that aid freely. And why? If it had been Shannon out there in the jungle, being held by the Others, if it had been Shannon who might be returned to him alive, what would he have done? The same thing Nadia was doing. Perhaps something far more brazen. Could he not at least help her to do what he himself would have been desperate to do?

Marcus had been silently strumming the chords to the song, but he had not yet begun. He seemed to be waiting for the survivors to recover themselves. "A few weeks later," continued the priest, "he sailed by the very spot where his daughters had perished, and he wrote the words to this song." He began, with the aid of Rose, who seemed to be the only one familiar with the lyrics:

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Father Marcus and Rose pressed on to the conclusion:

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

No one said anything when the priest silently handed the guitar back to its rightful owner, except for Charlie himself, who muttered under his breath, "Just great. I can't bloody well sing You All, Everybody now."