Chapter One: Discovery

“Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn't wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.”

– Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet

It had been three months since Shannon’s death. Sayid was sleeping better now, but still he awoke at least once each night bathed in sweat, with the traces of the same nightmare echoing in his brain. Either it was filled with scattered scenes, or he could not recall the connection, but always he saw Nadia begging him, “Come with me,” and always he saw Shannon crying, “You’ll just leave me.” He saw himself saying, “I cannot. I do not have your courage,” and he saw himself vowing, “I love you. I will never leave you.” And then he heard the screeching of a truck’s tires as it pulled away, and he heard the thud of Shannon’s body as it slumped to the soaked earth.

In the day, when the sorrow and guilt would rear their hoary heads, he would throw himself into the task at hand; work was a kind of salve for him, but he did not labor merely to mask the pain. He worked to help others because it was the right thing to do. Today he was learning to fish. The boar had been exhausted, and Jin alone could not catch enough to feed the survivors. The Korean was showing him how to wait patiently for his prey and how to gauge just the right moment to strike.

As he stood poised, knee-deep in the ocean, Sayid saw a silver glint from the corner of his eye. “Suitcase!” came Jin’s heavily accented English, and the Korean snatched up the small floating object, hurrying it to shore. Sayid followed quickly after him. He took out his knife to jimmy the lock.

There was very little inside. It must have been an overnight bag. Jin looked questioningly at the strange clothing and then looked to Sayid. “It is a burka,” Sayid explained. The only other contents were some women’s undergarments, a few toiletries, and an English Koran.

Sayid took hold of the Koran and closed the suitcase. Without a word to Jin, he began to run along the shore. When he had found Hurley, he was out of breath, but he managed to gasp out, “The manifest. Do you still have it?”

“The manifest?”

“The manifest!” Sayid demanded. “I must see it now!”

“All right, All right, hold your horses, dude.” Hurley disappeared and returned with the list.

Sayid scoured the names, flipping through the pages until he reached the J’s. He ran his finger down the list. He was looking for one name--Noor Abed Jazeem.

It was not there.

Of course it was not there. Why would he even have thought such a thing? Was he so desperate as that? Nadia was in California. She would have had no reason to be on that plane, and what was more, she would not have been carrying an English Koran, but an Arabic one. He cursed himself for his weakness, and he tossed the manifest angrily back to Hurley.

“So, hey dude, what did you want to see the manifest for anyway?”

Sayid, cleaning the day’s catch, looked up at Hurley. “We found a suitcase. I was curious to know to whom it may have belonged.”

“Curious? ‘Cause, you didn’t seem, you know, curious. You seemed kind of frantic.”

Sayid did not respond but continued scaling the fish with his knife.

“Like, it was a Muslim’s suitcase, right?”

“Yes,” replied Sayid.

Hurley pulled out the manifest. “Because, like, I didn’t see any Arabic sounding names on this except yours.”

“Not all Muslims are Arabs, Hurley. For all we know her last name could be Smith.”

“But I don’t remember anyone wearing a burka, dude.”

“Well, perhaps she only wore it to religious services, or when her husband was around to insist upon it.”

“Or, like, maybe she was in the CIA or something and she was just posing as a Muslim.”

Sayid shook his head and chuckled. “Or, like, dude, maybe she just kept it to wear to bars to pick up swarthy and virile Arabic men.”

Hurley dropped the manifest to his side and looked at Sayid through squinting eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”

Sayid let out a great, deep laugh. He hadn’t laughed like that since Shannon had died. It felt good.

“Hey,” said Hurley, staring at the list. “There is a Smith on here. Noor Jazeem Smith. I guess that first part could be Arabic, huh?”

“What? Where?” Sayid stood and grabbed the list.

“Yeah,” Hurley said. “But you see it’s not checked there. That means she never boarded the plane. But maybe her luggage got on, huh?”

“It does not make sense,” said Sayid, shaking the list. “It does not make sense. I was coming to her in L.A. I was coming to her.”

“Coming to who?”

“Unless…unless she was in Australia for some reason, and she was planning to take that flight home to California, and the CIA did not even know she was there. Why would they have cared, anyway? They were just using her to get to me.”

“Dude, what are you talking about?”

He pointed to the name. “This means she did not board, yes? This means she never got on the plane.”

“No,” Hurley said, shaking his head, “she never got on that plane. Now are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?”

“It is nothing. It is nothing,” said Sayid, handing him the list. “I need to get these fish to Jin for cooking.” He nodded to the big man. “Hurley,” he said politely and walked away.