SO sorry for the delay! This chapter is a thematic continuation of Chapter 4 (the titles of the two chapters combine to complete a very common saying that is absolutely pertinent to Locke's mission). Some heavy mythological themes coming up folks…I hope you enjoy it!
The sun sat high in the trees, licking at their tall tips with ease. The slow pace of the still jungle slumped once a ravenous, sliver-back boar came racing through the grass, its upturned nose sniffed at the humid air, pulling it from the atmosphere, then puffing it back out in turn. His four hooves patted the ground with hastened urgency, but before the boar knew it, the trap was set, pulling its round girth from the ground. Its squeals were blood-curdling, a pitch so shrill that it could cut double-paned glass. A man's hiking boot stepped out of the barricade of his hiding place, his sights set on the yelping hog that steadily fought its fate, the restraints of the trap. He pulled a knife from his belt and approached the net with a determinate gait. He didn't think twice about what came next as he wrapped his arm around the boar's neck, pointed the knife across its throat and slit it in half, listening as the hog's whine halted, until steely silence greeted him again.
The viscous droppings of blood that splattered to the ground made John Locke wish that Benjamin Linus had been at the blade instead.
Moments later, Locke sat at the edge of a campfire, his belly full of more than he could have possibly eaten in any normal circumstance. He was starving and rightfully so. He hadn't eaten a bite since the afternoon when he, Kate and Sayid felt the banks of the Others' compound fast approaching. He hadn't expected to get captured, drugged and dragged to the sole of Ben's shoes. It was funny how plans went bust, how they changed on a dime and made no apologies for the inconvenience.
He had a feeling that the Island's plans would never change, no matter what cards Ben had safely tucked into his sleeve.
It was mid-afternoon and for the past two days, he wandered, drifted through the jungle, with everywhere to go and no place to go at all. He wouldn't go back to the beach. There was nothing for him there. If he ever showed his face there again, he'd only be peppered with questions about Jack, about what happened to him, where he'd gone, why he wasn't coming back, and he hadn't the slightest clue. None of them would have ever imagined Jack abandoning them the way he has. He was more like a father to a lot of them, so the news of his departure would crush them. He didn't want to be in Kate's situation at all, that is if Ben did well on his promise to Jack of letting her and Sayid go. If he had, Kate and Sayid were reaching the outskirts of the beach as he sat there.
He wiped the pork's natural juices from his lips and sat in deep contemplation. What the hell was he going to do now? Ben offered one tempting proposition, an offer that he couldn't refuse; to learn all there was to know about the Island. But he had, he didn't have a choice. To trust Benjamin Linus was to slink back into the same slippery patterns of blind trust and exuberant reliance he'd made before. What he'd just done, getting Jack off of the Island was so much more than an eye for an eye, one good deed for another. Ben knew nothing of the art of reciprocity. He'd only been a selfish, maniacal bastard, who'd use anyone and anything he could to get what he wanted. That would never change, no matter what shiny new promise he pulled from his magical hat. Nothing would ever come of it that was beneficial. If anything, it would get him killed.
Locke's thoughts turned to Jack, the man he'd come to spiritual, and almost physical, blows with from the moment he decided that rescue was in his, and the group's, favor. In spite of how Jack treated him, Locke respected him considerably, even liked him. There weren't a lot of men like Jack left in the world, loyal, smart, kind, intense, stubborn with his beliefs, dogmatic in his courage and care for others, but there was a part of Jack that closed off the world beyond the wall of his imagination. He wasn't open enough to grasp what was true, what was real, what was right in front of him. Who made him this way? So deplete of even the capacity to dream, to hear the call that was so faint, but so true. Who denied him this gift?
He hadn't let go of something from the world he once knew, and it prevented him from embracing the earth at his feet, Locke decided. He wanted out from the start, and everyone else, as expected, followed suit. Transceivers, radio signals, rafts. Whatever they could find, plot, scheme, build, in order to escape this maddening perplexity of dirt and rock failed with flying flames and still, they asked questions, they still tried to leave. Jack never really had time to ask anything, he was always doing, moving, thinking. What failed, Jack found another way and it irritated the hell out of him.
Despite what Jack believed about him and the Island, Locke always held a torch of hope that he would one day come around to the somewhat whimsical thought of the Island offering more than a soft place to land, but it was a lost cause now. He was gone and that hope died with every step he took towards the submarine, but he saw it. Before Jack left, he saw something shimmer in his eyes when he realized what this was about again. He was obviously upset at first, then worried, then he listened, and with one blink of the eye, he was back to his old ways. He had to leave before he killed Locke with his bare hands.
John slowly marched to the realization that he had to give up on the prospect of Jack being a part of this miracle, and he doubted it would ever feel the same without him. The Island was cheated. He believed it still.
Locke stood and moved towards the lanyard of leaves that shelved above his head. He walked diligently; the slush of the sludge under his boots was the only noise he heard. It rained hours ago, and he welcomed the shower upon his over-heated skin, which now dried in the cool air. His throat was raw, scratchy. Most of the water he packed with him was gone, so he decided to use this glorious respite to find more. His short diversion brought him to a heap of short stalks, their wide leaves held water in their creases. He gently bent the flaps of their edges and allowed the liquid to drip slowly into his water bottle, collecting with the small ounce of water he had yet to devour. Every refuge of the rain's generosity was depleted until John's bottle was full.
He was set to bring the bottle's opening to his parched lips when he suddenly heard the jumbled peculiarity of whispers. He turned to look around him, but no one was there. Suddenly, a man stood at John's back, far in the distance. Locke sensed a presence over his shoulder and turned, bright eyes wide with amazement and confusion. The man wore a grungy, off-white collared, button-down shirt, untucked from the dark slacks he wore. He was barefoot, his hands clamped together in front of him, stoic features and folds of his face never broke stride. The light of the sun seemed to settle over his graying hair, creating a shadow of the trees as a backdrop.
The man stayed in place, watching, assessing. Locke moved closer, speechless and astounded. He cleared the ache of his throat, every flag of his curiosity waving in the wind.
"Who are you?" Locke asked.
Before the question had fallen out of his mouth, the man was gone, vanished without a trace.
Befuddled and outraged, Locke ran to the spot where the man once stood, hoping to find footprints at the very least, but there was nothing. It was as if he hadn't been there at all, a subliminal figment of his imagination that he hadn't known existed. Locke harbored the strange, eerie feeling that whoever that man was, he was trying to tell him something, speaking in a way that didn't use words, but was just as effective as if he had. He knew that he never saw or experienced anything that he wasn't supposed to, and this was not a rare occasion of the exception. All of this was fostered within the beautiful miracle of design, and suddenly, Locke knew exactly what he was going to do next.
He would do what Jack was supposed to do. He would find the answers. As the old saying goes, when you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
The faint murmur of the whispers was replaced by perilous clattering, like a fleet of several birds chirping, more like screeching in fear, dying in agony. Slow and perching at first, then clashing against the winds calm breeze, ricocheting calamitously. He turned, watching the leaves sway with the draft, which washed away the urgency of the sounds, then brought them back to his ears. It felt familiar to him, like he'd heard it before, some time in the past. A quickly-paced ticking rang through the air, then a high whistle, and another. He followed his ears as they reached for the source of the noise, then the ground quaked under his feet, growling blared through the leaves, then the horn of terror blasted through the branches, deafening.
The stalk of a nearby tree, tall and broad in shape, catapulted from the ground like a bottle-rocket, then another and another, creating a cumulous cloud of dust that blinded him. The snarling of the creature grew wrought, disturbed, and blood-curdling until the air was as cold as arctic rain. Locke faltered, falling to his feet, shocked at the wildness of what just occurred before his eyes, and yet, oddly thrilled by it. He knew that he should have ran in that moment, for his life, but he didn't, he couldn't. A force beyond his control kept him in place, unable to retreat.
It wasn't the impact of the fall that brought clarity; it was his memory that finally drudged up where he heard these sounds before, where he felt this much power harnessed, only to be released so freely and without caution. It was what the camp called The Monster, the nefarious column of smoke that he encountered in the jungle during that first boar hunt and again during the trek to the hatch door, when he was dragged through the jungle, ready to be taken where the malevolent creature demanded.
Righting himself against the grass with a tired grunt, he looked up towards the dirt that precipitated over him under the pale blue sky only to meet the hazy fog of the Monster as it settled towards him slowly, teasingly, taunting him to move and daring him to stay still. His blood ran bleak; his face lost its rosy complexion under its watchful pose. It studied him for a time, crackles of sounds and small thunders within persisted to roll straight through its transparent haze; the noises of jangling chains still rang outward.
Locke yelped in fear, agony and groaned in panic, dread. He knew what was coming next. In a fit of sudden desperation to save himself, he rose to his feet and took off in no particular direction, certain that the Monster was following him, its rumble powerful enough to make the ground shudder and shake, and would catch its prey. The ache of his knees were blinding, the soreness of his arms felt like dead weight, but he kept moving, taking off through the jungle's maze of plant life small whelps of fear curling from his mouth. Leaves smacked him all over, leaving small cuts against his forearms; each sting of their bladed edges brought a new thrust of exigency.
He hadn't travelled too far before the Monster's reach was inches away, tickling the air at his back. In an instant, the Monster tripped Locke's hustling feet. He collapsed to the ground with a groan, the battle for survival over before it ever began. The Monster's cacophony of growls, howls and high-pitched whistles was drowned out by Locke's screams for help as the Monster began to drag him by the ankles through the jungle.
Its speed was unmatched; all Locke saw was the blur of green and faint light all around him. He clawed for the ground, hoping that it would stop his descent into death, but he felt himself losing consciousness. His screams ceased once he blacked out, his lifeless body still taken through the jungle floor by the determined Monster who locked his ankles in a tight grip.
John Locke was as good as dead.
Sayid stomped through a bushel of staled weeds, his face blank. Kate followed close behind, her mind elsewhere. She wiped at the sweat of her forehead and neck with a small towel, trying her best to keep it together. He suddenly stopped, pulling at his bag which was slung over his shoulder by a lone strap.
"I think we should take a break."
Kate didn't argue. She plopped down into a seated position, her shoulders bowed in exhaustion. She began to peel a passion fruit that she pulled from her bag with the blunt blade of her army knife, her eyes vacant and swollen, staring at the ground with blank lure.
Sayid noticed that she hadn't slept well the night before. She tossed, turned, and might have even cried in whatever sleep she did find. She was crankier, but appeased, only because she didn't much care anymore, about anything. Every time they took a break, he caught her pulling out a silver-plated watch from her pocket, eyeing it longingly when she thought she was alone. He presumed that Jack had given it to her before he left, as a symbol of good faith. She played with its band, even tried it on once, her slim wrist way too small for it. It brought her hope, he noticed, a rejuvenated sense of purpose in moments when she looked too tired to move. It was the only thing she responded to.
Sayid didn't have any idea what to say, how to comfort her and it burdened him, because he considered himself to be a good friend to those who saw him as one, but he felt like his difference of opinion snatched away her will to fight. He much preferred that she yelled, screamed, but he didn't think she had much left, and to be honest, neither did he. He pulled a canteen of water from his bag, and gulped at it thirstily. He sat it on the ground at his feet, and caught the critiquing crease of Kate's features. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that sometimes, he wondered if she ever gave herself a mental break.
"Do you think they killed him?" Kate asked, practically out of nowhere. They hadn't spoken to each other any more than what was necessary, trying to avoid another heated confrontation at all costs. Sayid's confused glare forced her to clarify. "Locke. Do you think the Others killed him?"
"I don't know." Sayid answered, honestly. It was obvious that Ben had no respect for life, especially those of his enemies. It still puzzled him that he let them go so easily, without as much as a few dozen bruises that would heal with time. "Locke tried to blow up his submarine. I'm certain that Benjamin wouldn't take that lightly."
"He threatened to kill me, you know." She was staring down at the ground, her eyes vacant. His behavior was peculiar, and she was steadily reminded of just how similar their conversation over breakfast was to the one they had over the same morning staples of eggs and pancakes. "He's hiding something." It was all so clear to her now.
"Besides his identity this time?" Sayid's attempt at a joke fell on dead ears once he saw the staid fire in Kate's eyes.
"Besides the fact that he had a tumor growing on his spine that no one knew about. Why do you think he infiltrated our camp? It definitely wasn't to welcome us to the Island. He had a plan even then, and he has one now." But what was his plan now? She asked herself. She couldn't put her finger on why she felt this way, why these questions were popping up just now, but she had this inkling that there was more to Ben than what met the eye.
"He said he would kill me if I got in his way. I don't know what he's hiding, but it's important to him, more important to him than anything else, and he's afraid of someone finding out."
"How do you know that?" Sayid asked.
She closed her eyes, shrugging. "I don't know…intuition? We all have our secrets, Sayid." She knew that better than anyone, the past four years of her life were riddled with secrets, lies and tall-tales. "Ben's just making sure his stay that way."
She tilted her cheek into her palm; the color in her skin was still a hue that rivaled the deepest blush. Only then did she notice it. The soiled doll that she and Jack stumbled upon when they were on their way to confront the Others still lied just where it had all that time ago. She didn't recognize the twitch of her lips as they curved up into a smile. She rose and walked towards it. She unveiled it from the long blades of grass and she never thought she'd find just joy in ever seeing it again. Her eyes darted around it, intent on finding the missing piece. She stepped to the left, and there it was.
The net.
Jack had thrown it to the side after untangling it from her curls and helping her to her feet, but his laughter kept her grounded. The tension between them sizzled under the flame of the chemistry that just wouldn't die, and she couldn't get over how amazing the sound of his laughter felt to her. The weight of his broad palm against her hip was dizzying. He barely noticed it, how one touch seeped and settled against her so easily, but she certainly had, racing to feel more, but slowly steadying herself against him as he straightened to stand.
Her eyes misted with tears. What was wrong with her? It was just a net, a silly, old mesh of threaded yarn, but she knew that it was the memory attached to it that was breaking her heart all over again. It was during a time when they were on the brink of something incredible, and now it felt like it hadn't even happened, like her memories was living in a reality that never existed, never permeated with any matter besides her own. If only she'd told him that he scared the hell out of her, emotionally rocked her, that his kiss still tickled her lips, brushed her soul and that believing in her so much was why she was so prone to making so many mistakes, if only she were honest about all things she should have been honest about.
She brought the net's latticed weave through her small fingers and balled her fists, absorbing what little hope it gave her. It was just like the watch. It wasn't enough.
She heard Sayid's footsteps approach her. "What is it?" She didn't let him see the tears that shone in her eyes. She let go of the net, letting it fall back to the ground.
She cleared her throat. "Nothing. It's just a net." She rose, feigning nonchalance. "We're close. We should get moving."
Something told Sayid that she hadn't stumbled upon any ordinary net, based on the effort she made that kept her face from falling, her eyes from relinquishing the tears he saw in them. She grabbed her bag, zipped it harshly and began on the solid path towards the beach without a word, even more depressed than she was before. Sayid watched after her with sadness in his eyes.
Another reminder of Jack, he presumed.
He watched her with saddened eyes. Once they arrived to the beach, his former presence would only become more prominent, and he silently prayed that it wouldn't break Kate any more than his absence already has.
Rain covered everything in its path. The body of one John Locke lay motionless, still, abandoned in a muddy plot of grassless earth. He lied on his back, he wasn't breathing, practically fighting his way towards consciousness. His chest suddenly rose slowly until it protruded over his first full breath since his last memory of being pulled through the grass of the jungle.
He gradually broke into awareness, his eyes popping open, coughing, stammering, breathing heavily and fully once the water and stale air had finally been pushed out. The sky above was murky with grey clouds, shattered by slivers of lightening, and roars of thunder. He blinked repeatedly, preventing the heavy pour from falling into his eyes. He brought his hand up to his face and noticed the blood mingled with dirt all over his hands and arms. Confusion shown all over his face.
Was he alive? Was he dead? He panicked, frozen. He struggled to sit up, whimpering against the unfurled throb of his entire body. Splatting into the ground from eight stories up felt less painful compared to the living death he was currently experiencing.
He tried to move his legs, but found that he felt very little sensation below the waist. Fear rose inside of him, and tears came to his eyes. He looked down at his feet and discovered that his left foot was without the hiking boot that he tied to it. The black fabric of his sock was soaked with mud, the toes beneath it numbed by the wintry breeze. He pulled his head back to rest against the ground and silently wept, angry and confused, tired of trying, of losing. Why was this happening to him? Why had the Island given him a gift that no medical professional ever thought possible only to toy and tinker with it?
First, he couldn't feel much of anything after Ben ordered that he be released from his shackles. He would have chided him further if he'd allowed it, but sensation returned fully moments later like a knob had turned in his favor. Now, it was a lower degree of nothing, an emptiness almost, the same type of bareness he felt when he woke up in the hospital to the news that his spine was crushed and that he would never walk again.
After a few moments of wishing and hoping, sending every ounce of energy he had left into prayer, buoyant that some higher being would hear him and make sensation return to where it hadn't been since before the crash, he stayed still. Willing himself to keep his emotions in check and his spirits high, he took slow, practiced breaths. Soon, he looked down at the tip of the sock-covered toes of his left foot, and urged it to move. To his delight, his toes flexed and extended, his strangled gasp signaled his elation. He laughed shortly, his breathing still ragged and troubled. He realized what that was. Another test, of his faith, of his resilience, of his patience.
"Welcome back." He whispered with the pant of subdued joy.
Grateful, he pulled his upper-half from the ground, searching for his lost boot in the nearby filth of the muddy meadow. Finally, he spotted it nearby, out of his reach. Unable to stand just yet, he dragged himself over to his boot, blindly reaching. His grip caught it, dragging it to his side. Then, he noticed something that was lying next to it. He looked over and was shocked by the naked skeleton of fingers, small bits of flesh still hanging from the feeble bones. He perused the bones only to find them still attached to the bones of a hand, a faded watch still banded to the wrist. Attached were the exposed, chewed bones of the arm, its flesh and muscle eaten by the jungle's wildlife. It had to have been ripped from the shoulder joint of its owner years go, wretchedly so.
Locke immediately knew that the arm belonged to one of the Monster's victims.
He began to ponder why the Monster kept him alive again. Another question that he sought an answer for.
His vision came into focus, and only then did he notice that the jungle wasn't the only fixture in his sights. The lining of a stone-cobbled wall, stained with dew, covered with snake-like drapes of vine and fainted by the bleaching of heavy sunlight sat above him, high above. Its edge had to be seven to eight feet tall. He looked down at his feet and noticed a dark hole at the base of the wall. He maneuvered himself towards it, staring into the crack between the wall's foundation and the ground underneath. He couldn't discern where it led to.
With his best effort, Locke came to his feet, and wobbled towards the wall, his shoulder landing onto it with a solid thump. Ancient, crumbling and overgrown, the exterior of the wall was adorned with hieroglyphics of some kind. In some places, these hieroglyphics appeared rudely carved over otherwise delicate and intricate decorations in the stonework, like someone decided to redecorate. Locke was fascinated, enthralled, his fingers tracing over one of the carvings. This was it, what he'd been looking for.
He shuffled towards the doorway. Standing on his own, he pulled at the handle, but the heavy stone door wouldn't budge, sealed shut permanently. Frustrated, Locke tried a number of times to pull the door open, but it wouldn't release from the frame and allow him inside. An idea popped into his head. The hole. If memory served, it looked big enough for him to squeeze through. Locke stepped back in front of the hole, bent his debilitatingly achy knees to take a closer look. For the most part, the hole was dark, bits and pieces of the cobblestone barricade were sprinkled everywhere. Locke tilted his head at a different angle and was surprised by the faint glow of light. Someone was in there, he thought.
Determined, Locke maneuvered himself so that his legs would take the plunge first. He slid down into the tight fit of the hole, only to discover the length of a hallway in the distance. Crawling from the knit space, Locke discovered the torch that was responsible for the light he saw from outside, hanging from a hole embedded into the wall. He took it into his hand and allowed it to lead him down the rest of the hallway. He came to an open corner that led down another hallway. Suddenly fearful for what he might find, he pulled at the hunting knife that was still tethered to his belt, welding it in his fist. He was almost at the end of the hallway when he noticed the top of a staircase.
He descended down each step with a cautioned pace. It felt so cold and inhabitable, Locke shivered. Once he reached the last step, he found himself in a chamber of some sort, sustained by four stoned pillars covered in the primordial ornate of hieroglyphics, the same etchings found on the exterior of the barricade above ground.
Locke's eyes stretched with wonder. He twirled with the torch illuminating dark spaces within, the detail unlike anything he'd ever seen. At the end of the room, Locke approached a stone carving on a wall above a large angled stone slab perforated with a myriad of tiny holes. His eyes landed on the mural, an antique depiction of what Locke presumed to be the Monster peacefully encountered by an ancient entity of some kind, with the body of a modern human, but the head of another creature entirely, complete with a long stout, rows of sharp-edged incisors and pointed ears at the center.
The familiar chittering of the Monster was heard from the tiny holes of the stone-slabbed vent at the floor. Locke balked away in terror, and realized with certainty that this was where the Monster lived. These were its dwellings.
Why had it brought him here? He wondered. With that thought, the flame of his torch flickered repeatedly, a low growl filtered into the silence. Locke backed away further from the mural and the vent, racing for the stairs. He struggled to reach the top before the Monster could smell his fear, and he did so, breathing loudly. After he caught his breath, he discovered another hallway, one he hadn't noticed at all. He wondered just how many vessels this place truly had.
Anxious to escape the Monster, Locke stepped into the passageway and stopped dead in his tracks. Down the hallway, he spotted a man. His back was to him, his spine stiff and his feet were bare, walking towards a dim of light, the outline of his shadow playing against the dusty floor. Even though he couldn't see his face, Locke knew it was the man he saw in the jungle, before the Monster arrived to drag him away. He quietly watched the figure walk down the dimly-lit hallway, then he turned a corner, out of view. Locke heard the shifting of something heavy grind into the floor, the sliding of a door perhaps. More light flooded the hallway and the shadow beckoned Locke to follow. He walked slowly down the hall, one hand holding the torch upright, the other poised over the handle of his knife, readying himself for a battle. He turned toward the entryway of another chamber; a heavy stone door was cracked open, allowing firelight to bleed into the passageway.
Locke entered through the crack of the door and was greeted with the flames of a fire that sat in the middle of the room. Mesmerized, he took in the bareness of the room, nothing was inside except for the central pit that crackled with flames. There were carvings all over the walls, symbols, drawings, elaborate yet simplistic etches of shapes, animals, Gods, people. Most of the sketches weren't just scattered icons, they melded together to represent ancient myths, tall tales, history.
He studied the carvings, a little upset that he couldn't decipher what the symbols conveyed, only able to pick up bits and pieces.
The common thread of all of them, Locke realized, was the Smoke Monster. Its representation in certain schemes were varied, its form of black smoke depicted as a paralleled overlay of zigzagged lines in one lineage of legend and a scribbled swirl in others. It had been on this Island for ages, he noticed. Another mural, chipped and worn, was painted on one end of the room. Locke studied it with garlanded attraction. It painted the picture of the Monster struggling, wrapped in chains, leashed by humans that held the shackles in place.
A knob of some kind was placed underneath it, embedded into the floor. He inspected it carefully, and discovered that it was as old as the chamber itself, crumbling with the rest of the ancient ruins. The crevice that surrounded it was damp, like water had pooled there, but was recently released. Locke's mind began to reel as to what this thing they called the Monster actually was. A guardian? A protector? A villainous creature that could destroy any and everything in its path? He'd seen what the Monster was capable of, but this chamber, it seemed like the Monster was being held under lock and key, not just in ancient times, but even in the present moment. The humans who inhabited the Island long ago had created a mechanism that both summoned and imprisoned the Monster, and that method was still being practiced today.
The flame of Locke's torch began to flicker again, extinguishing for seconds at a time, only to reignite. The air in the room went from chilly to freezing. The hushed chattering of the Monster tickled his ears, quickened his heartbeat. He turned abruptly and met the obscure outline of a man at the door, his face concealed; the only visible aspects were his soiled clothing and bare feet. It was the same figure from the jungle and from the hallway. The man stood there like a statue, watching Locke with eyes that sat behind the guise of the shadowy gloom.
Locke didn't know whether to be scared or intrigued, grateful or accusatory. This was the person who led him here; this was who had reached out to him.
"Who are you?" His tone was more forceful than the last time he asked, adamant for a reply.
The man moved closer, the flames illuminated his face, marred with lines that displayed his ripeness, spotted with grey stubble at his cheeks, chin and jawline. His hair was stringy, slick and his eyes were a fluorescent sapphire, as deep as the ocean blue.
"My name is Christian." He grinned, wrinkles folding at the corners of his eyes. "It's nice to finally meet you, John."