Chapter Twelve

"If you have much, give of your wealth;

if you have little, give of your heart."

-- Arabian proverb

As they hiked through the jungle, Locke drew near to Nadia and, with a smile, asked, "How do you know so much about guns?"

"How does anyone know what they know about anything?" she replied. "I studied."

"Why?"

"Why not? Can a woman not have a hobby?"

Locke looked at her with a gleam of admiration in his eyes and chuckled. "You should have seen Jack's face when you started examining those guns. Sayid's for that matter."

"Sayid knows Iraq has one of the most heavily armed citizenries in the world," she said. "He just thinks me demure."

Sayid did not look to see if she was smiling as she spoke, but he listened to their exchange as Locke continued, "They all looked at me like that, you know, when I first showed them my knives. Some people have a prejudiced notion that anyone skilled in weaponry must be either backward or deranged."

"Prejudices are diverse indeed," she said. "My father was very wealthy, and our family had much land at our disposal. My brothers built a range, and I often watched them practice. My father thought it immodest for me to participate, by my eldest brother adored me, and he would not resist my pleas for instruction."

"Did you know," said Locke, "That one of Hitler's first acts as a dictator was to issue a ban on gun ownership?"

"Yes. Saddam Hussein, on the other hand, passed guns out. Dictators are diverse too." She then nodded to Locke as though to signal an end to the conversation, and she walked up towards the front, not far from Sayid.

Locke was quiet for a time, but occasionally he turned to those nearest him, dispensing wisdom now and again like a guru.

After one such enigmatic comment, the priest said, "You seem to think this island has a personality of its own."

"Oh, she does," replied Locke.

"Don't you fear you'd be betraying her by pursuing the Others?"

"The Others are not a part of the island," said Locke. "They are not a part of her will."

"And you know this because…"

He smiled. "The same way you know your God's will."

"Prayer? Scripture?" Marcus asked.

"No," said Locke, taking in a deep breath of the island air. "I feel it. I sense it."

Marcus shook his head. "I am not a mystic. Sometimes I wish I could be, but it is not in me. I am driven to test every spirit. I feel guidance, yes, but almost never certainty. I have faith in principles, in words, in what is written, but the feeling of the moment…feelings are too fickle."

"And words are subject to interpretation," responded Locke. "Isn't it just your feeling that drives your interpretation of scripture?"

"No. For me, it is largely tradition. Was it Pope who said, 'if I have seen farther, it is because I have stood on the shoulders of giants'?'"

"Which pope was that?" asked Michael, who was not really interested in the answer to his own question. It just helped him to talk; it kept his mind off of his guilt-driven need to find Walt.

"Not a pope," said Sayid from in front of them. They seemed startled by his voice; it was the first he had spoken all day. "Alexander Pope. He was an English poet." They waited to see if he would say more, but it was his last contribution to the conversation. Indeed, it was the last thing anyone said, as they drew nearer the territory of the Others. When night began to fall, they entered the bunker the tail-enders had once inhabited. They agreed to get some sleep and to wait until morning to pursue their mission.

They ate together first and discussed their plans, such as they were. "Thank you, Nadia," said Michael suddenly.

The words seemed to surprise her. "Why?" she asked. "It is I who am indebted to you. To all of you."

Michael shook his head. "I've been wanting to go after the Others for a long time now, but everyone convinced me it was futile. You've given me…you've given me the hope I didn't dare to hope." Michael looked around at the rest. "I'm not blaming anybody," he said hastily. "Everyone has just done what they thought was best for me and for the group. But how do we know, you know, until we try—really try?"

Locke nodded in agreement.

"And I'm glad you're all here," Michael continued. "I mean, I've got to be honest. If it were Shannon out there, you know, I wouldn't have come with you." He was looking at Sayid when he spoke, but then he turned his eyes to Nadia. "And if it were just your husband, and not my son…I wouldn't be here either."

Nadia nodded without judgment. The talk faded into silence and many began to lie down to sleep. Sayid, however, drew himself off into a private corner, stood with his hand against the wall, and lowered his head. Nadia followed him.

"Sayid," she said gently from behind him. He turned his face just enough to acknowledge her presence, but then he turned it back. "Why do you act as though we are defeated before our mission has even begun?" she asked. "You yourself have said that you do not know how many there are. That means there is, at the very least, a possibility of success. What good is it to consider defeat before you have even striven for victory?"

"I do not doubt there is a possibility of victory," he said without turning to her. "But I searched for you every day, Nadia. Every day. I finally let go…finally…and then you show up here." She waited to see if he would say anything else, and eventually he continued, faintly, "If we fail in this mission, I will lose you. But if we succeed, I will lose you too."

Nadia reached out to touch his arm. His flesh seemed to jump, but he did not ask her to withdraw. "I waited for you, Sayid. I sought word of you. But years passed. I moved on. So did you. Who is Shannon? Your wife?"

"Not exactly," he said, "but I loved her. Ana shot her. Accidentally."

Nadia glanced to the other side of the shelter, where the woman lay. "I thought she seemed undisciplined," she said. "Should we not have brought her?"

Sayid sighed and turned now to face Nadia. "She is undisciplined, yes, but at least she is willing to fight. Not many people have that will. Most walk timidly like sheep to the slaughter, always expecting someone else to save them."

"Not you," said Nadia.

"Nor you."

She reached out and brushed his hand, as if she could not help herself from doing so. "You have changed," she said quietly. "I see they way the other survivors admire you. It can only be because you have given yourself selflessly for them."

He said nothing.

"I always knew you could be such a man, Sayid."

He was glad to hear it; it was just the admission he had assured himself he was searching for: he had not been seeking her; he had not been seeking love…He had been seeking only the certain knowledge that he really had slain the old man within. Why was that now not enough?

Overwhelmed by feelings he felt powerless to control, he abruptly changed the subject. "Why were you on that island, with the priest?"

"I was vacationing with my husband."

"It does not sound like a vacation spot," he replied.

"Nasser was surveying the land, for his employment. I wanted to be with him. He travels a lot. I did not wish to be alone this time."

"He was surveying the land for the rich Jordanian playboy?" asked Sayid, repeating the priest's explanation. "It does not make sense, Nadia. Why would such a man wish to purchase any part of such an island, where the native population is so restless that the missionaries must flee? What were you really doing there?"

Nadia looked up at him. "What do you think, Sayid? Since you are suspicious, perhaps you have a theory."

"I have no theory. You tell me."

She sighed. "Are we ever being rescued from this island?"

"It is not likely."

"Nasser thought there might be plans to establish a terrorist training camp there, away from the native settlements, in the remote outskirts."

Sayid's eyes narrowed. She must have guessed what he was thinking, because she said, "How can you even consider that I am married to a terrorist, Sayid? Yes, I did finance some of the Kurdish and Shiite rebels against Saddam's government. But at that time, their targets were always military targets. Later, the waters grew murky; loyalties blurred; objectives changed; and some of my former associates became indiscriminate murderers. I cut off those ties when I fled Iraq. Even so, sometimes I feel I cannot wash the blood from my hands."

He knew the feeling. "Then why the interest in the camp?"

"Nasser was there looking for information on the camp," said Nadia, "because he is C.I.A."

This drew a stunned look from Sayid. He glanced into the corner of the shelter, where Marcus slept. "The priest then, too?"

"No, no. He was really there as a missionary."

Sayid's countenance grew hard. "Have you ever spoken to your husband about me?"

"Yes. He knew you helped me to escape the prison in Iraq."

"Did he know I was looking for you?"

Nadia seemed confused by his line of questioning. "I did not know you were looking for me."

"Well he did," Sayid spat and turned his back to the wall, leaning his head against it with a thud.

"What do you mean?"

Sayid told her the whole story of his interaction with the C.I.A., of the information they had given him in exchange for his cooperation, and of Essam.

"I am sorry, Sayid," she said. "I am sorry for your friend, and for the guilt you must feel because of it. But I swear I knew nothing."

"I believe you," he said, "but what of your husband?"

"If he knew…if he knew, he did what he felt he had to do to spare the lives of innocents."

"But if he did persuade the C.I.A. to use me, he did it without telling you."

"There is not much he can tell me," Nadia replied. "Half the time he does not even tell me where he is."

"Yet you came with him to that island."

"I insisted…and he needed a wife for the part he was playing anyway."

Sayid glanced suspiciously back at Marcus. "You are sure he is not involved with the C.I.A.?"

"I am certain. I would know."

"Would you have guessed I once tortured him?"

Nadia blinked. Now she too leaned against the wall.

"It is too strange to be a coincidence," he insisted.

"Do not mistake coincidence for conspiracy, Sayid."

Sayid considered the entire, bizarre situation for a moment. Mystery was wrapped up in mystery on this island, and coincidence had been compounded upon coincidence. It was too wild not to mean something; but whatever it meant, it was most likely not anything he could imagine. "We should get some sleep," he said.

She nodded and found a place to stretch out. He took the spot farthest from her.