Chapter 9
~§~
For nearly a full week, the entire valley had been encased in a cloud. Each morning Clark awoke to the same microscopic mist that dampened everything. His clothes were clammy, even his waterproof wool ruana blanket limp. Finally, on the morning of the eighth day, he opened his eyes to see blue sky instead of the leaden gray. Just the promise of a day with some sunshine in it gave him the energy to spring from his bed.
He dressed quickly and headed for Rosita’s for a cup of coffee. The constant damp had put a halt to any work on the school nearly three days earlier when they’d run out of adobe bricks cured enough to use. He’d filled the time holding impromptu discussions with the men of the village about alternative farming methods, a subject of which his knowledge was small and almost all but forgotten. Surely if Jonathan Kent could have heard his son talking, he’d have rolled his eyes and shaken his head sadly. Apparently, it was possible to take the farm out of the boy.
But surely there was something he could do now that the mist had stopped. He and Jeff had discussed several projects, and there was always adobe to be made.
Gillian was waiting for him at Rosita’s. She handed him a cup of coffee, her smile almost as bright as the clear blue day. “Looks like we might see the sun today.”
“About time,” he muttered petulantly, but a grin twitched on his lips. “If I wasn’t sold on the lovely weather of San Pablo before, I think after this last week I would be.”
Ignoring his dig, she went on. “Since it’s still too wet to do any work, are you up for a trip?”
“A trip?” He brightened, no longer hiding the grin that blossom into a full blown smile.
“Yep. Last night I put the last of the motorbike back together. I thought I might take her for a test drive.”
“Ha!” he crowed. “How long have you been working on that thing, anyway? What, it’s been at least four months...”
“Shut up or I’ll make you walk,” she said, but her smile belied her threat. With a flounce, she pushed past him and out of the cantina. He grinned and followed, gulping down his coffee before he reached the door.
The motorbike was parked in front of her shack, a large woven basket lashed to the rack across its back. He walked around it slowly, inspecting the workmanship. Lifting a skeptical eyebrow, he nodded with approval. “Looks like it might just run. Got two wheels in the right place. Didn’t forget the motor. But did you use all the parts?”
Refusing to take the bait, she grinned. “I had a couple left over. Nothing important unless you think we might need brakes.”
He laughed out loud as she took her seat and gripped the handlebars, looking at him expectantly.
“Where are we going?” he asked as he swung a leg over the seat behind her and placed his hands on her waist.
“It’s time for you see the wax palms,” she said as she kicked the motorbike to life and pointed it directly into the forest just beyond the clearing behind her shack.
After a couple of harrowing hours over twisting paths and inclines that seemed far too steep for the small bike to manage, Clark was thanking heaven he was invulnerable. That security didn’t keep him from wincing and ducking as low branches threatened decapitation and trees sprung out of nowhere. Several times he hollered to ask her if she was sure she was still on a path and had to accept her quick nod for reassurance.
She finally slowed up, pulling to a stop in front the moss-covered remains of a tree far longer horizontal than vertical. They were still in the forest, but he could see open space a few hundred yards beyond the thick vegetation.
“We’ll walk from here,” Gillian explained as she shut off the motor and lowered the kickstand. “It packs more of a punch if you approach it on foot.”
They made their way toward the brightness beyond the forest’s edge. He’d grown accustomed to the sounds of the exotic birds and even the distinctive call of monkeys, but this was the first time since his arrival in Colombia that he’d been so completely immersed in its untamed wilderness.
“If we had a couple of days, I’d take you to Valle de Cocora. It’s even more surreal,” she called over her shoulder as they stepped out of the forest.
He blinked as he took in the vista extended before him. She was right. There was no other way to describe it. It was simply surreal.
Dotted across miles of rolling hills covered in green velvet was a pox of the strangest trees he’d ever seen. Thin, striped trunks towered far above their heads, ending over a hundred feet up with an explosive splay of palm fronds. Not a single fork or branch marred the absolute straightness of each tree. They looked like oversized pins, and the space of several hundred yards between each one accentuated their unnatural proportions. It was as if some greater being had touched a finger haphazardly about the hillsides, and where contact was made, a tree had sprung straight into the air.
“They can live as long as two hundred years,” Gillian was saying. “The whole of Colombia used to be covered with them, but they were logged nearly to extinction. Now they’re protected as the national tree.”
“They’re unreal,” he exclaimed, unable to tear his eyes away from the view.
He knew they’d climbed out of the valley where San Pablo lay, but he hadn’t realized how far up they’d come. Beneath them a heavy cloud shrouded some of the more distant hills in gray mist, while the area where he and Gillian stood remained bathed in brilliant sunlight. The effect was like that of a painting, the artist having the freedom to render colors and climate and light as he pleased rather than what was actually likely to occur.
“Oh! Did you see that?” Gillian gasped.
“What?” He broke from the hypnotic pull of the wax palms to see what had caught her attention.
“That blue butterfly.” She pointed a bit down the hill. “I don’t remember what it’s called – blue motho or maphro or something. There it is again.”
He followed the line of her finger and saw a flash of blue against the Kelly green of the hillside. With jerking lifts and drops, the small insect flittered along, dipping down to the ground before bouncing up again only to alight someplace else.
“I’m going to catch it,” she said.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to catch butterflies,” he remarked. “Something about rubbing the powder off their wings.”
“Old wives’ tale,” she tossed over her shoulder and was off before he could protest.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched with growing amusement as she hopped about the hillside, stalking the elusive creature like some kind of oversized, two-legged cat. Each time she came within an inch or two of capturing it, the butterfly would take off again, leaving her empty handed.
Unable to contain his laughter, it rolled down the valley toward her, and she stopped to give him an exasperated grin. “Think you could do better?”
A challenge such as that he simply couldn’t refuse. Locking the butterfly in his line of sight, he zipped after it, cupping it gently between his hands before speeding to her side. The whole endeavor took less than five seconds.
“Hey, that’s cheating,” she protested, out of breath.
He grinned, unapologetic about his methods. “So you want me to let it go so you can catch it your way?”
“No!” she exclaimed, then gave him a sheepish smile. “Not until I get a good look.”
Slowly, he opened his palms enough to expose the delicate cobalt wings without allowing the butterfly to escape. His dark head touched her light one as they both bent over for a closer look.
“You don’t see these this far from the Amazon,” Gillian murmured, as if such a special guest deserved hushed reverence. “Butterflies can’t make it over the Andes. And they usually don’t live long enough to cover the distance.”
Apparently aware that it was on display, the butterfly opened and shut its wings slowly, allowing the awestruck human and Kryptonian to see the miracle of design and pure beauty it possessed in its small body. The brush of its wings against Clark’s hands was nearly exquisite in its delicateness.
“OK, let it go,” she whispered at last.
Flattening his palm, he held it aloft. The butterfly, taking its cue, launched itself back into the air. As it fluttered away, the sunlight caught its wings, turning them an iridescent blue that cause them both to gasp. Unable to find words to do the sight justice, they remained silent, watching as it flew toward the safety of the forest.
“That was amazing,” Gillian finally said, slightly breathless.
He watched the butterfly another minute until he could no longer make out its shape against the heavy foliage. “Yeah, pretty spectacular.”
“Did you know that there are over 3,000 different species of butterfly in Colombia?” she stated matter-of-factly.
Startling, he wondered how they’d gone from shared awe over one of the world’s beautiful sights to recitations from Encyclopedia Britannica. “Wow. That’s a lot of bugs.”
“Colombia is second only to Brazil in the number of different species of plants and animals it contains,” she continued, sounding much like an ecology professor about to launch into a lecture series. “And Colombia is nearly seven times smaller than Brazil.”
“Seven times, you say?” he mocked.
“Do you have any idea what that means?”
“That you are just…really annoying,” he teased.
“What?” she said, indignant.
“I thought I was a font of useless information,” he remarked with a grin. “You’re the bottomless pit of it.”
“This stuff is not useless. It’s very interesting.” She snorted. “That’s the problem with people, you know.”
“That they don’t know there’s 3,000 species of butterfly in Colombia?”
“Exactly!” she exclaimed, happy that he’d gotten it right and oblivious that he was still teasing her. “And so they let these rainforests get mowed down acre by acre. There’s no telling how many species become extinct every year. You know, pretty soon there’s not going to be any oxygen left on the earth because all of the Amazon rainforests are going to be gone.”
He nodded, remembering the research he’d done less than a year ago when he’d been assigned to cover a demonstration by the Metropolis chapter of Green Peace. “Yeah, I did a story on that once.”
“A story?” she repeated.
He winced. “Um…yeah.”
“That’s very interesting. A story. That you wrote? You?”
Seeing that it was too late to backtrack, he tried to minimize the damage. “It was a long time ago.”
But Gillian wasn’t about to give up, completely distracted from saving the Amazon by his misstep. “Part of that other job you used to have?”
“Yeah,” he said noncommittally, looking up at the sky to see if maybe it was getting dark. It looked to be only noon, but he tried anyway. “Listen, do you think we should be heading back soon?”
“Ahorita,” she said, brushing off his efforts to evade her yet again. “I want to know about this job where you wrote stories.”
He sighed. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if she knew that he’d been a writer. After all, the term “writer” still left things very vague. “OK, that other job, I’m…” He paused. Not anymore, he corrected himself. Now he was a bricklayer. A stucco expert. And of late, a farmer. “I was a writer.”
She looked at him, waiting for more detail. When he stared back, silent, she pressed on. “So, what did you write?”
“Stories,” he said, eliciting a dramatic eye-roll.
“Stories for who? Mother Goose?” she guessed with a grin. Then her eyes widened, the light gray taking on a sparkle of amusement. “Let me guess, you’re really Stephen King researching your next big horror novel set right here in the jungles of Colombia. What is it, killer butterflies take over the world?”
He laughed out loud. “All right, I confess. I’m Stephen King.”
“I knew it,” she said, shaking her head as if she’d discovered some dark secret about him. “You have kind of a shifty look about you.”
Suddenly, a wave of seriousness swept through him, an overwhelming desire to freeze time and keep anything from happening that might endanger the fragile peace he’d found since Lois’s wedding. “Please, Gillian, don’t ask me questions. Not about that.”
She studied him a minute, and when she spoke, her own tone matched his, all traces of teasing gone. “Why not?”
He needed to explain, to make her understand so that she could help him live the life he’d chosen. “Because if you do, one of these times you’re going to expect me to answer. And if I start answering, I can’t stay here.”
“I don’t understand.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were considering something she’d never thought of before. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Gillian, I’m Superman,” he said pointedly. “What kind of trouble could I possibly be in?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Burnt somebody’s house down by accident?”
He had to laugh at that. “Let’s just say that outside of San Pablo, my life is a lot more complicated. And I like that here, at least, I can just be Sam.”
“Sounds an awful lot like aquí y ahora to me,” she accused with a small smile.
“I guess so,” he admitted. “No worries about the past.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what about your future?”
Remembering her elusiveness when he’d asked her a similar question so long ago at the St. Mary’s fiesta, he used her tactic to avoid answering her now. “I see me getting to drive that motorbike in my future.”
She let out a bark of laugher. “No way, flyboy.”
“For Pete’s sake,” he protested heatedly, “why won’t you let me drive?”
“Because I know the way to the perfect spot for a picnic.” The twinkle had returned to her eyes, and without warning, she bolted toward the forest, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll race ya!”
He gave her only a second before tearing after her, but in the end he let her win.
They rode on what appeared to be some kind of path for a little less than an hour, finally reaching another spot that overlooked the valley of wax palms. No less spectacular than the first view, the new spot featured a small plateau that offered them a more horizontal place to share some lunch.
Clark spread his ruana on the ground while she untied the basket lashed to the back of the motorbike. Setting it on their makeshift blanket, she produced from within its innards a couple of bananas, some cold chicken, several thick arepas, and two glass bottles of orange Nehi.
He enjoyed the food while Gillian regaled him with more random facts about Colombia’s wildlife. By the time they’d finished their simple meal, he’d promised that she’d be his first choice as a partner should they ever find themselves in a Trivial Pursuit match focusing on the flora and fauna of South American countries. When he’d suggested that she try to land a spot on Jeopardy, she’d thrown her balled up wax paper at his head with an indignant giggle.
Reaching for a bottle of soda, she rummaged deep inside the basket, frowning when she failed to find what she sought.
“Shoot. I forgot the bottle opener,” she lamented, using her hand to try to twist off the metal cap. When the sharp edge dug into her palm, she examined the tender skin sorrowfully, then used the end of her shirt as thin protection while she tried to open it again.
Clark pulled the bottle from her, wincing when he saw the thin scrape of blood dotting her palm. “Let me do that. You’re going to get hurt.”
With his first finger and thumb, he unscrewed the cap as easily as if it had been a coin just set atop the bottle’s opening. He handed it to her then opened the second bottle for himself.
She watched him with amazement. “What about you? Didn't that hurt?”
“Nope. I’m tough.” As if to prove his point, he held the cap between his fingers and pinched, folding the thin metal in half as though it were paper.
“I’ll say.” She took a sip from her bottle, then eyed him keenly. “Have you ever been hurt? Being a superhero seems to be a pretty danger-intensive line of work.”
“No, at least not in the normal sense,” he said, taking a long draw from his own bottle. “I’ve been shot at, jumped into the middle of explosions, even flown toward the sun. Nothing seems to do any damage.”
He didn’t mention kryptonite. Like so many painful things he’d left behind, it wasn’t a part of his life anymore.
“And none of that was painful?”
“I really can’t feel pain.” It was hard to explain. He could feel a bullet when it impacted his chest, but it felt simply like a shove. And while he could feel the heat from a fire, there weren’t the degrees inherent in its intensity. To him, placing his hand in the flame was no more different than taking a hot shower.
Gillian reached across the space separating them and pinched his forearm lightly. “Can you feel this? Does it hurt?”
He shook his head. It felt like a small bug had landed on his arm. “I can feel it, but it doesn’t hurt.”
Unsatisfied, she grasped a little more skin between her fingers and pinched again, a little harder. As she did it, she winced, as if it hurt her. “What about that?”
He laughed. “Gillian, I’m not a science experiment.”
“I’m a nurse. This is professional curiosity,” she rationalized calmly. “Now, tell me. What about this?”
Trying a different approach, she used the very edges of her fingernails and tracked a path down the length of his forearm, leaving behind thin white lines that quickly faded into the tan of his skin.
“Yes, I feel that, and no, it doesn’t hurt.” In fact, it actually did the opposite of hurt. It felt strangely nice. Suddenly, an entire flock of blue butterflies began to flutter about in his stomach, and he shifted away from her, confused. “Now, stop. Before…” he trailed off.
Before what? His heart started to pound, adding to his dismay.
“What?” Taking her eyes off his uninjured arm, she caught his puzzled expression. Her own turned instantly contrite, her eyes filling with regret. “That hurt, didn’t it? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – ”
“I’m fine,” he said, offering reassurance while at the same time trying to come to grips with his own unexpected reaction and the discomfit spreading through his chest and down his limbs.
Maybe he just needed a little space. Scrambling to his feet, he looked up into the sky. This time the sun told a different story, and he realized with a start that the afternoon had slipped away. “We really need to head back.”
She glanced upward as well, nodding her agreement. Silently they packed up the remnants of their picnic, shaking the grass and dirt off his ruana.
As they walked to where she’d parked the motorbike, Clark caught her hand and stopped her. “Hey, Gillian?”
“Yeah?” She turned to see what caused him to pause.
He gave her a slow, lazy grin. “It’s my turn to drive.”
~§~
By the time they reached San Pablo, the sun had settled well beyond the horizon. Gillian shouted over the roar of the motorbike’s engine that if Clark wanted, she might have enough in her shack to make them a little dinner since it was probably too late to grab anything at Rosita’s.
He nodded his agreement, happy to have a reason to extend their day together. He’d had a great time and didn’t have any desire to return to his lonely room.
Expertly he parked the motorbike in front of her shack, turning to help her off and waiting with his arms crossed over his chest while she untied the picnic basket.
“So, are you going to admit it?” he asked, giving her a smug smile.
“What?” she asked, heading toward the door. She shoved the basket into his arms then fished in her pocket for her braided keyring.
“That I can drive that thing as well as you can.”
“Sam, really, are you so insecure that you need my approval?” she tossed over her shoulder as she worked the key in the lock.
“You just can’t admit it. That I can do anything you can do.” He followed her into the room, blinking against the light when she switched on the lamp.
“You aren’t going to break out into show tunes are you? Because if you are, I love Irving Berlin, but really, I prefer Rogers and Hammerstein – ” She stopped mid sentence to let out a squeal of delight.
Clark peered over her shoulder, wondering what had elicited such a response. In the middle of her table sat a box wrapped in brown paper with a black design all over it.
She took the picnic basket from his hands and gave him a bright smile. “Wow, perfect ending to a pretty fabulous day, I would say. A package from home.” She looked like a little girl on Christmas morning.
While she placed the basket on the counter, he walked over to the table and glanced at the neatly written label. Sister Gillian Brooks, Calle 3 No 2-05, San Pablo DC Colombia. He read it again and frowned. Something wasn’t right. Sister Gillian Brooks. Sister Gillian Brooks.
He grasped the edges of the box, lifting it closer to his eyes as if he’d simply read it wrong. It was then that he noticed that the patterned wrapping wasn’t really wrapping at all. With a heavy black marker, someone had drawn crosses all over the sides of the large box. Dozens of religious crosses.
With a thud, he set the box back onto the table. He couldn’t explain the sharp rock that slid down his throat to settle painfully in his stomach. Why hadn’t she told him? And why did he even care? He swallowed hard, trying to speak. “Are you…you never mentioned…”
At his stammering, she turned to look at him. “Geez, Sam. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Are you...you’re a nun?” he managed to croak out.
“What? A nun!” she hooted, coughing when her laughter overcame her breathing. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Clark gestured to the shiny white label plastered to the top of the box. He felt like a fool, and a flush of anger mixed with his dismay. “I don’t know, just the fact that this is addressed to Sister Gillian Brooks and has about a hundred crosses drawn all over the box.”
“Oh, that,” she said, hiccupping as her breathing settled back to normal. “It’s an old PCV trick. Even the most corrupt postal workers won’t mess with something religious. They’ll risk the wrath of the government but never the wrath of God. They have their morals, you know.”
“So you have your stuff addressed to ‘Sister’ Gillian to fool the mailman?” A wave of relief washed over him, almost as confusing as the panic he’d felt a few seconds earlier.
“Yep. Works like a charm. See, the original tape is still sealed.” A giggle escaped before she could stop it. “Me a nun. That’s a good one.”
Clark collapsed into a chair, the anger distilling to irritation which quickly percolated into a heady joy that he didn’t understand. Why in the world did it matter if Gillian were a nun, and why in the world was he so glad to find out that she wasn’t?
“Well let’s see what good old Mom sent to us.” Using a key, she slit the middle and sides of the box, opening it to peer inside.
Lifting out a metal tin, she shook her head sadly. “I keep telling her not to send chocolate chip cookies. They’re always so stale…oh fabulous. Licorice! Here, you want some?” When he declined with a shake of his head, she shrugged. “Geez, how come nobody likes black licorice? It’s the best.”
Clark lifted the top off the tin of cookies, choosing one. It looked harmless, actually very tasty, but when he bit off a corner, it crumbled like sawdust in his mouth.
“And here’s the May issue of Glamour. Only four months out of date.” She laid the magazine on the table, it’s glossy image of a thick-lipped, highly made-up model strangely out of place in Gillian’s homespun room. She must have agreed, going on to explain, “My mom is a little clueless. I think she thinks I sit around a pool all day trying to hook some handsome Latino man. She’s always sending me Glamour and Cosmopolitan. If she could see what I wear every day, she’d probably have a heart attack.”
He laughed along with her, once again trying to picture Gillian as she must have been before she had left the United States. In truth, he couldn’t imagine her being any prettier with makeup or fancy clothes. Something about her unaffected naturalness seemed to suit her very personality. Besides, anything she might add would only distract from the clear gray eyes and her own smooth skin and healthy color.
“Oh, here we go. The latest books my mother thinks I just have to read. Let’s see if there are any you might like. Hmmm. Bridges of Madison County. Like Water for Chocolate. I’m sensing a theme here.” As she pulled each book from the box, she handed it to Clark. He examined the covers, flipping them over to skim the summaries. “Oh, here’s one you might like. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Looks like a real barnburner set in Savannah.”
He accepted the book, studying the cover carefully. Quite haunting, it featured a statue of a girl, holding a shallow bowl in each hand. Squinting, he saw that rather than a statue, the girl was actually a headstone in the midst of a cemetery surrounded by trees draped heavy with Spanish moss.
“Oh, Mom. I love you,” Gillian was saying.
Pulling his eyes away from the book, he tried to see what she held. “What?”
“New underwear. You can’t find this kind anywhere in Colombia. Simple, white cotton bikinis...” She held up a package, then grinned sheepishly as she realized he was gaping slightly. Giving him a wink, she teased, “Perfect for a nun.”
Feeling his cheeks heat, he quickly returned to inspecting the book. Clearing his throat, he tried to sound unaffected by learning what kind of underwear she preferred. “This book looks quite intriguing. A murder mystery based on a real story.”
“New toothbrush. Soap. Shampoo,” Gillian listed as she continued to pull items out of the seemingly bottomless box. “Look, Luke, dog treats! Box of Poptarts. Oh, for crying out loud, a loofah? What’s this? God, it’s heavy...”
It took a minute for him to realize that she’d stopped talking. When he looked up, her face was pale. She was staring at a flat object she clutched with white knuckles.
“Gillian, are you all right?” he asked, standing slowly.
She nodded, then swallowed, her voice flat. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“What is it?” He twisted his head slightly, trying to see what she held. Whatever it was, it had obviously caused her distress. Was it bad news from home?
“It’s a plaque. For the clinic,” she explained, pulling her gaze from it to look at him. Her eyes were so wide he almost stepped back, the intensity of her pain a palpable thing. “I asked my parents to send it before the earthquake happened. When there was still a clinic. I guess I forgot to tell them in my last letter not to send it...”
“Can I see it?” he asked carefully.
Wordlessly she handed it to him. He accepted it gingerly, turning it so that he could read the inscription. Etched into the brass oval mounted on a foot long slab of marble less than a quarter of an inch thick was a delicate script. San Pablo Clinic ~ In Memory of Christopher Brooks.
Christopher Brooks. Chris. Her twin who had died three summers ago. No wonder she looked so stricken. Both brother and clinic lost to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, wishing he could do something.
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault on either account,” she said, swiping a hand across her cheek. Trying unsuccessfully to appear unaffected, she gave him a tremulous smile. But it didn’t hide the pain in her eyes made silver by the tears pooled within them.
Placing the plaque on the table, he opened his arms, inviting her to come to him. And when she did, he held her tightly against his chest while quiet sobs trembled through her. He let her grieve, something he imagined she hadn’t done at all in the four months since the earthquake had taken away all of her hard work.
“We’re going to rebuild it, you know?” he murmured against the top of her head. “It’s why I’m here. Why I’ve stayed.”
“To help me rebuild the clinic?” she asked, turning to lay her cheek against his chest. He could feel her tears soaking through his shirt.
“Yeah,” he promised.
Her palms flattened against him and she pushed back slightly. He loosened his hold on her, letting her pull away so that she could look up at his face. “Is that the only reason, Sam? The only reason you’ve stayed?”
“I don’t think so,” he admitted, both to her and, for the first time, to himself.
“Then why? You said it yourself. You don’t usually give this kind of extended service.”
He thought a minute, trying to understand it himself. “I guess I was hoping to find something here...something I lost.”
She leaned against him again, her cheek pressed right above his heart. Her arms slipped around his waist and he tightened his hold across her shoulders. This time, she offered comfort to him as well as he to her.
“And have you found it?”
“Not yet, but I think I’m getting close.”
“I want to help you,” she whispered after a minute
He closed his eyes, letting the warm scent of her hair fill his nose. “You already are.”
They stood that way for a long while, until a low growl emitted from her stomach filled the room and made her giggle. Joining her with deep chuckles of his own, he released her, and together they moved to her tiny kitchenette where they began to fix dinner.
to be continued...
