Chapter Sixteen

"The best mirror is an old friend."
--George Herbert

Sayid rubbed his temples as he walked towards Sun's garden. He was sure she must have something that would help him. He was looking at the ground when he approached, and he saw her kneeling in the dirt.

"Nadia," he said, keeping his eyes on her hands. "I…I was looking for Sun."

"She went to get a few more plants to transplant. Sit down. You look unwell."

"It is just a throbbing in my head," he said, but he walked to his left and sat down beneath the shade of a nearby tree.

She came and sat beside him. "Try this," she said, handing him some leaves. "You breathe it in."

"Has Sun taught you all the types?" he asked, taking the leaves and inhaling deeply. He put his head back against the tree. He felt the tension in his temples relax, but everywhere else throughout his body it grew. He knew it was Nadia's presence, and not the herbs, that were at fault.

"I must find a way to be useful," she replied.

"Locke says you have often helped him to hunt. I did not think you knew anything about hunting."

"I know more about being hunted," she agreed. "But Locke has taught me a great deal."

She now leaned back against the tree, sitting very near to him. "Must you strive so hard to avoid me?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered. "I must."

"I am sorry we cannot be friends. I could use a true friend in this place."

"You have your husband."

She looked down at the two leaves she still held and twirled them. "Yes," she said. "And Sun has been kind to me. And Claire. And Kate. They all have, actually, although they seemed a little unsure of me at first. They are kind, but we have so little in common."

"After weeks pass on this island," Sayid replied, "you will be amazed to learn how much you have in common with these people."

Nadia sighed. "Yet…I would like a friend who knows me."

"Nasser does not know you?"

"He knows who I have been for the past three years. That is the woman he knows."

"And," asked Sayid, finally venturing a sideways glance at her, "is that woman very different from the one I once knew?"

"Not very," she said. "And yet…not quite whole."

"Who among us is whole, or ever will be in this life?" He let his eyes roam her face.

Nadia must have felt his gaze, because she turned and looked at him. He lowered his eyes. "You do not look much older than I remember you," she said. "But your beard is much thicker. Your hair is so long."

"Do you disapprove?"

"What right would I have to disapprove of such things? Besides, age has been kinder to you than it has to me."

"You have changed," he said, "but your beauty has not faded."

She smiled, but he did not know what the smile meant. Hers were not the curved lips of a flattered woman, or a flirtatious one. He might have called the smile bitter-sweet, if he could think of anything to call it.

"Why the wife beater?" she asked suddenly.

"What?" If she had wanted to change the topic, she could at least have said something less nonsensical.

She laughed. "That is the strange name Sawyer gives to that shirt you are wearing, the one you seem to favor."

"Well," he said, feeling some of the tension fade from his body and even suspecting he was beginning to smile, "It is hot here, and I am not so traditional as you. I am at least covered from navel to knees."

"I am not as traditional as you think, Sayid. If I were, I would not be speaking to you alone."

"Perhaps you should not be," he said, the levity now drained from his tone.

He was relieved to see Sun returning, and with her the priest. Nadia rose from beneath the tree and walked over to greet them. "Will you be assisting us?" she asked Marcus.

"Yes," he said, "and I brought another helper."

Claire approached from behind him, holding a sleeping Aaron draped about her in a sling fabricated from unwanted clothing. Sayid raised a hand to her from where he sat beneath the tree. "It's practically a party," she said.

"I do not know how much help I will be," said Sayid. "I came for the medicine." He held up another leaf to his nose and inhaled deeply.

"Well," Claire said, now sitting beside Sayid. "The truth is, there's not much I can do while slinging Aaron about. I think I'll just sit and supervise." Then, below her breath, but loud enough for Sayid to hear, she murmured, "And enjoy the show."

Sayid glanced at her, shook his head slightly, and then leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes. "Father Marcus," he heard Claire say from beside him, "do you mind doing women's work?" Sayid could hear the smile in her voice, even if he could not see it.

"For two years I lived in a community…well, I guess you might call it a monastery, for lack of a better term. There was no woman's work there, of course, because there were only men. I tended the garden."

"And cooked?" Claire asked.

"No," he said, laughing. "We hired wenches for that."

She groaned.

Sayid felt Claire's breath in his ear. He opened his eyes slightly. "Sayid," she whispered, "is it wrong to flirt with a priest?"

"I do not know," he said, rather tired of the whole exchange, which somehow made him ache more. And then, more loudly: "Why not ask Marcus?"

"Ask me what?"

"No!" hissed Claire. "Sayid!"

Sayid projected his voice: "Is it wrong for a woman to flirt with a priest?" He looked at Claire as if to say "so there," and then he leaned once more against the tree.

"It depends," said Marcus, "on her motives."

Claire, now caught in a rather awkward position, timidly ventured a response, "Suppose they are perfectly harmless? You know…suppose she absolutely did not intend the flirting to go anywhere at all."

"Oh," the priest said, driving a plant into a recently dug hole and covering it with earth. "Then she shouldn't do it. That would be teasing, and teasing is unkind."

Marcus rose and walked over to the tree. He placed one hand against it. Sayid thought it was past time for his departure, but he was weary and could not bring himself to move. So instead, he took another whiff of the leaves and tried to ignore their exchange as best he could.

"Do you think I am a Roman Catholic priest, Claire?"

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"I never said so."

"But, when you first arrived," she stammered, "you were wearing, you know, that collar, and everyone calls you Father, and…"

"I am a priest," Marcus said. "But I'm an American Anglican."

"You mean Episcopalian?"

"Not quite."

"Well, what does it mean to be an American Anglican?"

"That would require an entire lesson in church history and theology. But one of the things it means is that, back home, people more often call me Reverend than Father, although I will answer to both. It also means I was not required to take a vow of celibacy."

As disgruntled as Sayid was, he actually felt sorry for Claire when she, quite obviously without thinking, blurted, "Then you can have sex anytime you want?" The Iraqi's eyes were still closed, so he could not see her blushing, but he could almost feel the heat of her cheeks radiating out to him.

Marcus let out a deep, rumbling laugh. "No, certainly not anytime I want. But if and when I marry, then I can have sex with my wife. Anytime she wants."

Sayid was spared having to hear the remainder of their banter, because before Claire could respond, he fell asleep.