Chapter 10: Moonflower

A few days later, Sayid gathers together Scott Jackson and Steve Jenkins and loads everyone down with packs and bedrolls. From the seashore, Hurley spies them as they leave. Huffing and puffing, he finally catches up to them. "Where are you guys headed?"

The men glance at one another before Sayid speaks. "We're going to map the Island."

Steve adds, "If there's a dock, a village, anything, we'll never find it sitting around here."

Scott claps Hurley on the shoulder. "Catch you on the flip side, man."

As they disappear around the coastline, it occurs to Hurley that Jack isn't going to like this.

Jack isn't as butt-hurt as Hurley fears, though. When Jack makes his morning beach rounds and hears the news, he simply says, "Hmm, good idea."

Kate's the one who looks stricken. She and Shannon spend a long time talking, and oddly, Shannon seems less upset than Kate.

*:*:*:*:*

Over the next week, days blend into a blue and gold haze. Piece by piece, the survivors dismantle the signal fire. The reflective metal plates make good cutting surfaces, and at mid-day, people fry tern's eggs on them.

Freed from feeding the hungry fire, people have time for other work. Using pantomime, Sun teaches Claire, Sylvie, and Janice how to weave nets, slicing the cords with Kenneth and Brian's sharp knives. Four women working together can make a fishing net in a single day.

After a morning of weaving, Claire says to Hurley, "You know, sometimes I think Sun understands us. If Sylvie says something funny, or Janice gets all rude, Sun just gets this look, like she knows what we're talking about. It's like she fights to keep from laughing."

Other people on the beach have noticed this, too.

Shannon changes her tanning spot to a cluster of rocks, where she gazes eastward like a stranded mermaid. If Sayid returns from the same direction he left, she'll be the first to see him.

Hurley and Claire sleep like spoons now, his belly spreading to fill her curved back. She pulls his hand over her taut stomach, where tiny feet play a drum-line under his palm. Nothing's happening in the baby department, either, no Hixson-Bracks or whatever they're called, no more fainting, and her lower back's right as rain.

Eventually the child in her belly rests, and so does Hurley. He falls asleep every night with his face buried in her hair, breathing in its fragrance of sunlight.

Each morning he wakes to find her nestled in a little closer. Embarrassed by his morning arousal, he pulls away from her, even if she murmurs in protest.

Further than this he dares not go. Her huge pregnancy makes it feels like trespassing, and there's little privacy. Some mornings an agony of desire seizes him, and he unwinds himself quickly, hoping she doesn't notice. If she does wake up, her misty glance holds him like a magnet. Unclaimed kisses hang in the air between them.

Each morning, Hurley trudges to the caves, bearing loads of gooey-duck clams or dried octopus. Each morning, Claire follows him with her eyes, the same way his mom did when his dad would roar off on his bike to Uncle Emil's body shop. As if she isn't sure whether he'll come back or not.

Each afternoon Hurley returns, laden down with salted pork and jungle fruit, to find her stirring something in the pot. Grateful, he slurps down steamed mussels, or jack-fruit porridge spiced up with sliced pork.

"I suppose I'm not as modern as I thought," Claire says with a laugh in her voice.

These are good days, peaceful days. The lottery recedes from Hurley's mind. So does the curse of the Numbers, his four-month stay in the psych ward, and his missing prescriptions. Even though Dr. Brooks warned him about going cold-turkey, he hasn't missed the meds.

What he hasn't forgotten, however, is that he has something to tell Claire.

*:*:*:*:*

That night Hurley builds a small fire up the beach, out of the camp's earshot. Wrapped in a blanket, Claire joins him.

He tells her about the person he was, the one who broke a rickety deck at his cousin's graduation party, killing two of the guests. That person ate until he passed out, then woke up only to eat again. If his mother yelled at him to get up, that person would pull the sheets over his head and sob that there was no reason to, because he was so useless. When he started yelling about how the world would be better off without him, his mom called 911.

The next thing he knew, cherries were flashing outside the living room window. At least they took him to the hospital in an ambulance, not a squad car.

Four months later he came back home: dazed from medication, twenty pounds lighter, still convinced that reality was a thin skin which might peel off at any second. His hospital stay made it possible for him to go through the motions, to "become functional" as Dr. Brooks put it. Not happy, not flourishing, but at least he got up every day and went to work, and didn't scare his mom anymore.

Unnerved by Claire's silence, he waits for the verdict. He won't blame her if she bolts, but he doesn't know how he'll bear it if she does.

Finally she asks, "How do you feel now?"

"Good. Like before the accident."

She takes her hand in his, and he can barely believe it. Maybe she's not going to run, after all.

She starts out hesitantly, and then her voice firms up. "After we crashed, something happened to the baby. He wasn't moving, and then all of a sudden, he did. Whatever it was, he was in big trouble, the sort where even a hospital might not help. Then something happened, and he's fine."

"That's really awesome, Claire."

"Look, I know what Jack would say that's unscientific mumbo-jumbo and all. But maybe there's something about this place, in the air, or the water..." Her voice trails off, unsure. "You heard Kenneth, that photographer. There's no trash on the beach, no oil slicks. Have you noticed that the birds don't have any bands around their legs?"

He hasn't.

"True, Joanna drowned, and Sayid got bashed on the head, but has anybody fallen ill? Really ill?"

Hurley thinks hard. "A couple people up at the caves caught a pretty gross foot fungus. And you got heat-sick."

"That was dehydration. When I got a bit of water in me, I was fine. Listen, when I'd go to camp on holiday, the leaders were always nagging us about boiling our water. But here, we drink water from the cave spring, or the rain traps. Hurley, maybe it's this place."

"This place? How?"

"I don't know."

"You think we should, um, say something to Jack?"

"Sure, if you want him to think we're barking mad. Oh, sorry, I didn't mean that."

"No, it's okay."

She gives him that look again, the one which greets him each morning. It's not enough for him to assume, though. "Claire?"

"Hmm?"

He gulps, hard. "What happened to me... you know, the hospital and everything... Do you still... I mean, is this, all this, still okay—"

Unable to continue, he just points down the beach towards their shelter, at everything they have. A few pieces of scrap metal for walls, with a blue tarp roof. A tote bag and three suitcases, the smallest one filled with makeshift diapers. Plates, and a battered pot pounded out of scrap metal. One of John Locke's knives, and the black obsidian one she prefers. Her khaki hat. His square blue do-rag.

Either she's already made up her mind while he's been stammering away, or it was never a question to begin with. She says, "Yes."

His nine-figure lottery wealth might as well be in another solar system, for all he cares. All that he has, all that he wants is right here on this beach, by this fire.

For the first time, Hurley actually believes that old Australian lady who didn't blame the Numbers for her lost leg, or her husband's suicide. You make your own luck, Mr. Reyes, she had said.

Sometimes your luck rests right in front of you, wrapped in a blue airline blanket.

Hurley leans in towards Claire. Her face lifts like a moonflower, the beautiful cactus which blooms only one night each year. Their mouths meet in mid-air, as they welcome and explore one another. Hurley's not used to kissing, so instead of breathing through his nose, he stops to take in air. She picks up where he leaves off, and he's drowning in one kiss after another, going down once, twice, then for the third and final time.

Hurley's lost, and no one has ever been less willing to be rescued.

She stops kissing him and studies his face, her eyes fire-shadowed. Her cheeks are dark with blood, her lips half-parted and a little swollen from rubbing up against his beard. In his heart, tenderness and desire weave together as intricately as one of her nets.

Claire cushions her head against his breast, letting out a deep sigh which sounds like his name.

When they bed down, she keeps a foot or so of distance between them. Before he has a chance to feel hurt, she strokes his hair a few times, then clasps his hand in hers. A deep flame licks his body from the inside out, making his skin glow with heat. One look at her flushed face tells him that she feels the same. Almost apologetic, she says, "It's kind of hot tonight."

That's an understatement.

Claire greets the day like some newborn creature which has just broken through the eggshell of the world. The ordinary beach, sun, and surf are all drenched with new light.

Hurley's about to head to the caves when she says, "Can I tag along?"

They pass through the valley, and never has Claire seen anything so beautiful. Emerald trees blanket steep, scooped-out hillsides. Hawks glide on warm thermals, then swoop to the valley below, gripping their tiny, struggling prey as they rise. Stands of bushes burst with purple flowers, and spikes of pink ginger thrust up through the coarse grass.

The path is broad and wide, trodden flat by many trips. Too soon Claire and Hurley duck under interlaced green branches, which blot out most of the sunlight. It's here that Claire's stomach begins to churn with undefinable anxiety.

She's cold, too, in her sleeveless camisoles and short skirt. By the time they reach the cave entrance, she's shivering. Waterfall spray forms a clammy mist, and she clutches her arms together for warmth. There's a strong smell of mushrooms left too long in the refrigerator.

As Jack rises to his feet, he gives Claire a quick, clinical assessment. "Everything going all right?"

She smiles a little, suddenly tongue-tied at the newness of the caves.

Jack points to some baggage piled near a small grotto. "There's some more luggage, Hurley, if you want to sort through it."

Locke sits on a loft lashed together out of bamboo. He stops his carving long enough to nod in greeting, then resumes. Michael cuts bamboo poles into uniform lengths, probably for more loft-beds. Claire doesn't blame them for not wanting to sleep on the damp cave floor, where puddles of red mud stain her shoes. As Michael works, Walt nags about going to the beach to play Frisbee.

"Not now," Michael says. "Go find something to do. Just don't go off into the jungle."

Charlie's guitar sits its open case, but Charlie's nowhere to be seen. Only Jack looks happy as he arranges his collection of prescription pill bottles, strips of home-made bandages, scissors and razor blades. His new "infirmary" is right out in the open, by the central waterfall. If someone comes to Jack for a visit, everyone else can see and hear.

Hurley calls out, "Claire, you got to look at this."

"Coming."

He practically pulls her into the grotto, his voice full of conspiracy. "Check this out."

"What are these, golf clubs?"

"Ssshhh!"

Now they're both whispering, heads almost touching. "Why's it a secret?"

"Man, have you noticed how down in the dumps they are around here?"

From the adjacent cave, Walt ramps up the whining again, and it grates on Claire's nerves. "Fair point."

Hurley's eyes gleam. "Be right back."

He's gone longer than Claire expects. Water drips down the grotto's walls, which suddenly seem to close in on her, even though the opening is wide and breezy. She lowers herself to a lumpy rock, where dampness seeps through her skirt.

All at once, Claire feels observed, scrutinized. Sweat coats her forehead, despite the chill. When a dark shape steps into the grotto, she lets out a startled cry.

"Take it easy," says an insinuating voice. "I don't bite."

She scrambles to her feet, but slips on cave mud. Ethan grabs her arm with one hand, her waist with the other. Her flesh crawls at the touch, and when she gets upright, she shakes him off. A brief flicker of anger passes across his face, then transforms itself into an ingratiating smile which shows too many teeth.

"Thanks." She doesn't mean it.

"So, I bet you're moving in, right?" Ethan doesn't retreat, even though he's no longer touching her. When he takes half a step forward, she backs up into the cave wall, feeling its chill through her thin camisole.

She wonders if she can dart around him. Thankfully Hurley returns, filling up the grotto's entrance. "Hey, Claire, I got it."

Ethan whirls around, and Claire almost swears he's ready to strike. When he sees the long machete in Hurley's hand, he starts speaking, rushed and anxious. "So, I see you found the luggage that Locke and I dragged out of the jungle last night."

Hurley tests the blade edge with his finger. "What's out in the jungle at night?"

"We were hunting those big raccoon-like things, gray fur, like an opossum."

"Yum, yum." Hurley sounds unconvinced. "Well, thanks, man. We'll take it from here."

Hatred flashes across Ethan's features, but his tone is courteous. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Hurley's face darkens like an approaching storm. Claire feels sorry for whoever gets caught in the downpour, but as Ethan leaves, the clouds pass. "Sorry, Claire. Locke talked my arm and leg off. Hey, could you grab those Hawaiian shirts?"

It's as if Ethan doesn't exist. Claire stuffs the flowered shirts into her tote bag. "So, what's going on?"

He doesn't answer, just laughs. It's not until they once more breathe the green freshness of the valley that he turns to her, full of warmth and fun. "We're gonna build a golf course."

*:*:*:*:*

As evening falls, Claire and Hurley troop back to the beach. She's exhausted, giddy with sun, her skirt splotched with grass stains, almost breathless from laughter. "That was great, when Jack hit it into the rough."

"Yeah, I could hear Kate all the way from the green, telling him to just drop it already."

All in fun, Claire mimics Jack's voice. "'It's a matter of principle, Kate!'"

"Guess I shouldn't have told people it was three par."

"More like ten par."

"People really liked hitting those walnut-things. Maybe tomorrow I should make a driving range up against that rock wall."

"That'd be easier, I'd imagine. No need to whack grass."

"Yeah, my arm's gonna be stiff as hell tomorrow."

In the bush, something flickers out of the corner of Claire's eye, then disappears. She squelches anxiety, trying to remain calm. "Oh, God, remember when Charlie started climbing on you from behind. I thought I was going to choke."

"Dude would of played every hole like that, if I let him."

Night fills the tree canopy, and they still have halfway to go. Again Claire senses that they're being followed. No, not followed. Tracked. Stalked. She tugs on Hurley's hand, trying to speed up the pace. "It's almost dark."

"No prob, Claire." He loops her tote bag over his neck, where it bounces up and down against his big stomach as they hurry along. Claire loses the weird feeling of being spied on, but she still breathes a deep sigh of relief when they reach the night-drenched beach camp.

People are talking about the golf course, including Shannon and Boone.

"Of course I play golf, dumb-ass," Shannon says.

"Funny, I thought your sports tended more to the horizontal."

Hurley doesn't even drop his burdens before wedging himself in between Boone and Shannon. "Missed you guys up at the valley."

"Well, I couldn't pry the princess here off her rock. Give it up, Shan. He's not coming back."

"Boone, dude, that is so not cool."

Suddenly, a few shouts ring out from down the beach, drawing people who wonder what's up. Above the gabble Hurley hears, "Hey, look, it's Sayid!" "Sayid, man, you're back—" "Scott, long time no see."

At Sayid's name, Shannon bolts towards the crowd, making it half-way before stopping frozen in her tracks.

Sayid strides in front, orange torch ablaze, while Scott and Steve bring up the rear. These three aren't what everyone's looking at, though. A woman marches beside them, head held high as she surveys the crowd. Greyish hair tumbles over her shoulders, and olive camo hangs loosely on her muscular frame.

What silences the group isn't her strange appearance. That honor goes to the rifle casually slung over her shoulder, and the laden ammo belt which encircles her narrow hips.

Sawyer pokes his head out of his tent as they pass. "Well, if it ain't Abba-Dabba and the rest of the caravan. Hoo-boy, what popped out of Aladdin's magic lamp?"

Sayid ignores him. He calls out, "Where are Jack and Kate?"

Boone says, "They're at the caves."

"Then perhaps someone won't mind asking Jack to join us first thing in the morning, for an affair of state. He and Kate should be here."

Boone swallows hard, as if afraid. "I'll go." One last nervous look at the strange woman, and he disappears in a flash, Sayid's torch in hand.

"He doesn't like guns," Shannon says to Sayid with a severe look. "And neither do I."

Sayid breaks into a small smile. "It's all right, Shannon." To her and the rest he says, "Everyone, this is Danielle. Danielle Rousseau."

(continued)

(A/N: "The eggshell of the world" phrase was inspired by Revolutionary Girl Utena.)