Chapter 2: Come the New Moon, We are Gone
When Sawyer came back with Ana Lucia and her band he was seriously wounded, but now he's got some of his old swagger back. He ambles up to the circle, keeping a respectful distance. "Afternoon, ladies."
Kathy knows that when Sawyer says "ladies," it means he wants something. "Howdy, Sawyer. How's the arm?"
"Right as rain," he answers with a broad grin.
"Fast recovery."
"I take my vitamins."
"So what can we do you for?"
"Well, you gals have quite a reputation as soap makers, and I was wondering if your potion worked as well on clothes as on your dewy-fresh faces." He ignores the sniggers which follow his stab at flattery.
"We can make you some that'll work better on clothing."
"It'll be worth the wait."
"Well, you're the bosses. Unless you want to go ahead and sell that recipe for your secret sauce." Met with silence, Sawyer adds, "Didn't think so."
Kathy is ready to bargain. "Five sewing needles, and a pair of scissors. Doesn't matter what kind. In exchange for two coconut bowls' worth of laundry soap."
"Two needles," Sawyer retorts.
"I hear sea-water's good for washing clothes, especially boxers," Kathy says with a mild expression. "Until the sea-water dries, and the salt gets into your skin. In all the tender spots."
"Three." He folds his arms.
"Hey, Sawyer," Shana says. "Why don't you just get some laundry soap from that Hatch? They probably have ten years' worth down there."
"Well, if you fine ladies at the back of the beach here haven't noticed, Dr. Giggles and his bald sidekick have kind of taken over the Hatch. And I'm not exactly in their club."
Kathy nods. "We noticed."
"So what's it going to be, gals?"
"Five needles, and a pair of scissors."
"Four."
"Done."
"Okie dokie, then," Sawyer drawls out, satisfied. "I'll bring 'em by right now."
"Ooh, speedy delivery," Jane pipes up.
Kathy silences her with a firm look, then says, "No need, Sawyer. We won't have your soap till tomorrow, anyway."
"Yeah, well, I know y'all are good for it." His tone is grumbling, but still friendly.
"Hey, Sawyer," Shana says as he turns to go. "You bunk down there by Claire, right? Could you, like, keep an eye on her?"
The way Sawyer raises an eyebrow makes Kathy's heart sink. "Now just what makes you think Missy Claire needs me to squire her around the cotillion? Last I heard, Colonel Kurtz was moving in."
"Oh, Christ on a velocipede." Jane's voice is low, but Sawyer hears.
He half-turns, his face hard. "Delivery's just been canceled, ladies. You can bring my soap down to the beach when it's ready, and get your sewing circle kit then."
After he's gone, Kathy says with a sigh, "Jane, you just got yourself a job. Pick up the needles, and check on Claire, okay?"
"What a tosser," Jane says in disgust, but she nods her head.
"Somebody remind me, we need him why?"
"I thought we talked about not trading with him."
"Come on, you want him as an enemy?"
"Hey, Kathy, why'd you settle for four needles instead of five?"
Kathy pauses, her glance distant. "Because he's the kind of man who likes to think he's winning."
The women shift and stretch. Morning is over. It is time to get on with the afternoon's work.
"Man, I'm stiff."
"Me too, but you know, it's not so bad, sitting on the ground."
"Don't miss chairs that much anymore."
"Time to cut some fruit."
They look over at Libby. With her back still turned towards them, she seems to be asleep, but you never can tell.
"Do you think she'll—"
"She's never followed us before."
"We should bring the old woman some more mango this time."
"I think that what we brought last time was a hit. She looked pleased."
"Who doesn't like mango?"
"How about more dragon fruit?"
"Dragon fruit is so pretty. The basket should look nice. I think she'd like that."
"Did you see the way she smiled? I mean, she looks a hundred years old, but still—"
"Yeah, that's some smile. Hope I look that good when I'm her age."
They all fall quiet. A little old woman lives somewhere out in the jungle, in that part of the forest where the vines are so thick on the trees that you can't even see the trunks. Or maybe the old woman just visits there, because they've never seen a shelter or hut of any kind. There's nothing in the clearing but a pile of flat stones about four feet high, obviously stacked on purpose. The stone pile is surrounded by thick red foliage.
The women had first met her one day shortly before Boone died, after roaming further and further inland, searching for dead-fall. They had agreed to cut no living trees, and dead wood had become increasingly hard to find. At first the old woman didn't say anything, just stood smiling next to the piled-up stones. She was naked to the waist, with a skirt made of glossy green leaves, and hair that fell in thick ringlets of white-streaked grey.
When the women saw her, the old woman raised her finger to her lips as if to say, Ssshhh, don't tell anyone.
They crept back to the beach camp in stunned silence. They agreed that tomorrow they'd bring her some food. After all, she wasn't just old. She was ancient. Maybe she'd been shipwrecked a long time ago. It had to be hard for her to provide for herself.
The next day, they brought mangoes and a beautiful pink sea bream which they would have loved to roast for their own lunch. But the old woman probably needed it more than they did.
She wasn't there, so they left the fish and fruit at the base of the stone pile.
This went on for some time, until the day after Boone's funeral. They brought Shannon with them, because they didn't want to leave her alone. This time, the old woman was waiting for them.
The top of her head barely reached up to the shortest woman's shoulder. She began to speak in a language none of them knew, one more like song than speech. Her cadences reminded them of the water which flowed in the jungle streams, or echoed in the chatter of birds.
The old woman came right up to Shannon and took a bowl of banana in coconut cream from Shannon's hands, then set it atop the stone pile.
To everyone's surprise, she took Shannon's face into her hands and rubbed her wrinkled old nose against Shannon's smooth forehead.
Later, Shannon said later that the old woman's breath smelled like roses. The most beautiful roses ever, better than any perfume.
Today the women are here, every one of them, as the afternoon sun beats down on the old woman's clearing. They've arranged dragon fruit, mango, and a few small oranges in a basket, then garnished it with ferns and something that smells like parsley.
Once again the old woman waits for them, but this time, instead of accepting their gift with a nod, she raises her finger and speaks in her waterfall of a language. Her stern expression shows they'd better pay attention.
Using a palm leaf as a broom, she sweeps a clear spot on the ground. With her wooden walking stick she makes a long, curved line in the sandy soil, then adds wiggly lines like waves.
"The beach," someone murmurs.
The old woman nods, then draws a few trees with a fire in the center. She points her stick at the women, then at the fire, and then at the women again, getting her point across.
"Our camp."
As the old woman continues to draw, landmarks become clear.
"Look, there's the edge of that cliff. The steep one."
"The flat valley. What Hurley calls the Mesa."
"Yeah, where Kate and Dr. Jack play golf."
"Hey, that looks like bamboo."
"The bamboo forest."
"It's a map."
"Oh, my goddess, a map."
The map grows several feet wide on the reddish ground.
"Look at that spot where she's marked."
"That's the part of the jungle we're not supposed to go."
"What's it called, the Dark Zone or something?"
"The Dark Territory."
"Does anybody have any paper?"
No one does. Kathy pulls out a Sharpie marker. "Who's willing to give up her shirt?"
Shana takes off her outer camisole, and Kathy copies the map onto the peach cotton. On the ground, the old woman draws a circle right in the center of the Dark Territory, and points to it several times for emphasis.
"What's it for?"
"It's obvious," Faith declares. "We're supposed to go there."
"When?"
"How will we know?"
"What are we supposed to do there?"
The old woman puts her fingers to her lips. "Sshhh."
"We'll go when the time comes," Kathy says, and the old woman nods.
"Can she understand us?"
"I don't think—"
"She must."
"Well, then, why—"
Kathy breaks through the chatter. "When? When do we go?"
The old woman points up to the sky with her stick, then draws a thin crescent moon. She points to the moon, then once more to the sky.
At first the women are befuddled, before they understand. "The moon! The new moon's just come into the sky!" A few of them have started to watch the moon and its phases. Not so much the stars, though. Sayid once told Shannon that the stars were strange, that he didn't recognize them. But the moon, now the moon is the same as she's always been.
The old woman nods, with strength. She draws more moons which grow fatter as she scratches them across the ground. Then they grow thinner again, and thinner still, until there's no moon left at all. That's the one. She points to it three times, to make sure they understand.
Faith is the first to get it. "The dark moon. That's when we're supposed to leave."
"Makes sense," Kathy answers. "It'll be easier to slip away."
The old woman hits the dark moon so hard that sandy dirt flies up.
"Right. At the next dark moon, we're supposed to leave for the spot you showed us on the map. And then stay there. Live there. Until it's safe."
Yes, the old woman nods. Yes. She places her hands broadly across her flat old breasts as if to suggest that she will be there too. Waiting for them. Then she gives them the final once-over glance of a housewife regarding her freshly-scrubbed floor, and turns to go.
"Wait," Kathy says. "What's your name? Who are you?"
"Haumea."
"Haumea?"
"Her name's Haumea?"
"I'm Kathy."
Haumea waves her hand in a gesture of dismissal, as if she already knows all this. Then she hands her stick to Kathy.
"You want me to keep this?"
Haumea nods.
Kathy gives a little bow. It seems the right thing to do. "Thank you."
The rest of the women pick up the chorus. "Thank you." "Thank you."
But Haumea, the old woman of the forest, has already melted away into the deep green shadows. And for some strange reason, the thicket is full of dead-fall today, more than they can carry.
The stick is a beautiful thing, covered with circular designs carved into dark reddish wood. As they walk back to camp, Shana asks Kathy, "Do you think she made this?"
"I dunno. Look at the polish on the surface. It's like glass. If you like it, take it."
"Hey, she gave it to you."
"We can share."
As they walk back to the beach camp, the rest of the women can hardly suppress their excitement.
"Not a word of this. To anyone."
"The guys can come. Craig. Brian."
"Kenneth. He's helped us a lot."
"Yeah, he's a good guy."
"Jerome, too."
"Don't forget Doug."
"Sylvie, I know you can't forget Doug."
Sylvie blushes.
"Rose and Bernard?"
"Nah, Rose likes Charlie. It's like he's her pet or something. He goes sniffling to her about Claire, and she tells him Claire doesn't really mean it, yadda yadda."
"Ugh."
"What about Sayid? Shannon would have wanted him to come."
"Sayid's changed."
"Look, I know he's sad over Shannon, but—"
"Yeah, can you blame him?"
"No, but he's changed. Watch him. You'll see what I mean."
"What about Hurley?"
Everyone waits for Kathy to speak, but she just marches on through the green jungle, her shoulders rigid. Finally she says, "No." The word seems to tear out of her like a fish hook stuck in the hand, one that has to be pushed all the way through to release it from the tender flesh.
"Why?"
"I mean, he's so not an asshole."
"He's the anti-asshole."
"And strong. Did you see him lift those food pallets? When he gave all that food away, from that Hatch thing?"
"No!" Kathy repeats, a little too loudly.
Everyone stops.
"Oh, I get it. Libby."
"She has a point. Hurley can't keep a secret to save his neck."
"Libby can get anything out of him."
"All she has to do is drop a bra-strap."
Another game of theirs is to bet how long it will take for two people at the beach camp to wind up sleeping together under the same tarp. The women are remarkably good at it, and their guesses are usually on the mark. But they haven't with Hurley, out of respect for Kathy's feelings.
"It has nothing to do with Libby."
"Okay, Kathy, then what does it have to do with?"
Kathy can't explain why she thinks that asking Hurley along would take the top place in a list of very bad ideas. "Look, trust me on this, all right? In the short run it would be great. In the long run—" She stops, defeated by her inability to explain this new way of knowing. Of seeing.
No matter, they've already started moving on again, laden with wood but spirits lighter than they've been since the crash.
Their thoughts and tongues turn to preparations, their focus narrowed like light through a magnifying glass.
"We need to get ready."
"Get our stuff packed. Dry some fish."
"A lot of fish. And those calamari things. They last forever."
"But on the sly."
"Let's build fish-drying stands. We can say it's for trade."
"Nobody is going to notice."
It's true. They all feel it at once, how un-noticed they are by most of the people at the beach.
"We could walk out of there tomorrow, and no one would miss us," Shana finally says.
They fall quiet as the weight of it settles on them.
"Well, not no one."
"Yeah. But for all practical purposes—"
As they come in sight of the beach camp, Sylvie remarks, "I'm going to miss seafood."
"Maybe we won't be out there in the Dark Territory for very long."
If they knew their stay would extend for three years, their hearts would not be so light.
In the remaining daylight hours, the women work quietly, sharing their anticipation only through little glances or touches on the shoulder. Each is like a woman newly pregnant with a baby long expected and prepared for, but who doesn't want to tell anyone yet. Jane and Faith tell the men about the old woman in the clearing. The others lash together bamboo poles for drying racks, stopping occasionally to stir their dinner of taro root stew.
As twilight approaches, it's too late to collect soap plants, and the drying racks are done. Shana and Jane, Meredith and Sirrah take their nets and head down to the tide pools, to fish for squid and octopus.
Before they go, Kathy hands the old woman's stick to Shana. "It might come in handy."
"Hey, I'm not that old. I think I can make it to the tide-pools and back without a cane."
Shana takes it anyway, though, and it balances light and strong in her hand. Once they cast their nets, it takes almost no effort to fill their baskets to overflowing. They have to stop when they run out of room. Never before has anyone had such a catch, not even the Korean fisherman, Jin. It's almost as if the soft little creatures are swimming directly into their nets.
Evening clothes the sea in purple, fringed with sea-foam lace. The women roast a late supper of octopus over a small fire. Soon Hurley thumps along, kicking up sand in a half-jog. Recently he's been power-walking up and down the beach, pacing like some huge beast in its cage. Meredith and Sirrah don't get why he's doing it, but Jane and Shana do, and hot anger burns inside them.
"Hey, Hurley."
He stops in front of Shana. She squeezes a lemon over the rows of boneless little bodies browning on their bamboo slivers. "Look at all the octopus we caught. Come over and have some."
"Hey, Shana. Love to, but I gotta exercise." He bends down to sniff the fragrance, though. "Hi, Meredith. Hi, Sirrah. Yo, Jane."
"Oh, come on, Hurley, sit down. We don't see you around much anymore."
He laughs the weak laugh of a man with secret preoccupations.
Shana pulls an octopus shish-kebab off the fire. As she hands it to him, she thinks that it's a real shame they can't bring him along when they leave this beach for good.
Hurley praises the food, and Shana gladly gives him more without being asked. Each bite Hurley takes seems to represent some great struggle between shame and desire. For an instant, Shana gets a glimpse of two armies locked in mortal struggle on a vast battle plain.
Then the vision passes, and all she's left with is the sense that Hurley has a bitter journey ahead of him, one which leads through deep woods mired in darkness, and not the ones to which they go. But some kind of enormous promise surrounds him, too. A huge one. If she were more old-fashioned, she might even call it destiny.
All at once, Shana understands that Kathy was right to not ask Hurley to join them.
He thanks them, and there's that smile again, fainter than it used to be, but still shining like a lighthouse in the harbor.
Jane wraps a half-a-dozen skewers of roasted octopus in a clean rag. "Be a love and take these down to Claire, would you?"
He grins, and takes off down the beach to where Claire lives. This time he doesn't jog, but rambles along at his usual pace, whistling some short, tuneless bars.
Meredith puts out the fire while Shana and Sirrah gather up the catch.
Jane scans the beach up and down, back and forth, an old habit formed in the days when they still thought a ship or plane might rescue them. When she spies Charlie sitting alone by a sputtering fire, she gives Shana a nudge. They watch with shrewd calculation as Sawyer joins him. The two men soon put their heads together, deep in conversation.
"Looky there," Shana says.
"Isn't that cozy."
"Wonder what that's all about."
"What's Charlie doing down at this end of the beach?"
"Dunno, maybe he's slumming."
"Those two are thick as thieves, aren't they?"
"Whatever they're talking about, Sawyer's pretty adamant."
"I don't like it."
Sirrah sighs. "I'm so ready to get out of here."
Shana agrees. "It's going to be a long month."
Above them the crescent moon flickers thin as the worn edge of an old coin left in a drawer, long forgotten.
(The End)