Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic The Forgotten - Chapter 6

Hi,

Sorry I'm a day late again. I'm having some refurbishment work done on my kitchen and yesterday was very busy.

I hope you don't mind the accent, and I assure you, this is not an attempt at a Mary Sue character on my part!


Chapter Six,
A Stranger in A Strange Land

Letour picked up his backpack from the road where it had been dumped and waved his hand apologetically at the irate driver. The man frowned back at him, closing the twisted door with much difficulty while muttering curses about those who tried to defraud the system. Then the driver quickly returned to his seat and manoeuvred the dilapidated bus away from the former passenger, down the dirt track which served as a main highway in this remote part of China.

Left alone in this lonely place, Letour grunted in frustration, though he couldn't exactly blame the man for throwing him off the bus. He'd already traveled well past the point his paltry funds would allow. Remaining inconspicuous had worked for a few miles, until he'd made the mistake of getting involved with a family feud which had taken place right under his nose. At first, he'd tried to ignore the altercation, but when the obnoxious passenger had lashed out at his heavily pregnant wife, Letour hadn't been able to control his instinctive need to protect the weak.

His habit of trying to help had gotten him in trouble a number of times since he'd begun his new life. Often he'd attracted unwelcome attention from the locals, who obviously weren't too happy to accept advice from a lowly Korean illegal immigrant. Drawing notice to himself was definitely one of the things that his 'rescuers' had advised him against - - for his safety and theirs.

Most of the time, he'd managed to keep himself to himself. After all, he didn't have much to offer when it came to socializing with the neighbours. He really was more comfortable alone. Yet, it appeared he couldn't stop interfering when he saw someone in distress, and so, he'd been forced to lead a nomadic existence, always moving on before anyone became too curious about his origins.

The fact that the Chinese accepted he was a refugee from across the border might or might not be a good point. There were many of his 'kind' in this province and on the whole they were tolerated because they did the work that many of the residents were loath to do. Illegal immigrants were a source of virtual slave labour and as such were not deported, but his very association with the land he had escaped from could be unfortunate.

In the beginning, there was little he could do about that supposition, since he spoke Korean. That wasn't 'his' language though. He was sure that he'd conversed more naturally in English with the two doctors, as well as even exchanging a few words of French with Dr Ducos.

Then again, he'd learned very quickly to understand Teo and the other soldiers, while the local Chinese dialect hadn't proved too difficult for him to pick up either. Maybe he was one of those people who had a good 'ear' for foreign tongues. He had certainly come to speak like a native in these last two years.

However, no one would ever believe he was Chinese. He looked too different; was a little too tall, and though his skin had become weather-beaten from working mostly in the open air, he wasn't quite the right colour.

No, he was a stranger in a strange land, cut off from belonging, not only by his appearance, but by his lack of self-knowledge. Regarded as little more than an indentured servant by the people he met, he'd yet discovered that the biggest obstacle to his making a connection lay deep within himself. How could he interact with other people's lives when he knew nothing of his own? Sadly, more than two years had gone by and he was no nearer to remembering his past or even what kind of person he had been.

There were still his dreams. Some nights the dark haired woman would come to him, or he'd see a laughing boy catching a ball, or little girls cuddling into his chest, but all these visits were ephemeral. Whatever injury he'd suffered that had led him to the bunker, or perhaps suffered 'inside' the bunker, must have left him permanently impaired. He tried so hard to cling onto the memories -- if such they were -- but there was no one to give him answers, even if he could remember the correct questions. His life was this empty place....

Yet, bemoaning his lot wouldn't help with his present predicament. He was alive and that was something to be grateful for. Slinging his well-worn bag over his shoulder, he gazed up and down the empty road. On either side of the track, gorse and tree covered hills rose steeply to meet the snow-capped mountains beyond.

He'd been heading for the next small town. Using public transport, the journey would have lasted more than a day, since the route wound its way through the long, deep gorge. On foot, there was every prospect that the time scale would treble, but he had no other choice but to continue on his way. The community he'd left behind had made it clear he was unwelcome after he'd saved a fellow immigrant from a beating. So once again he was on his travels.

At least his luggage didn't weigh much. A single change of clothing, an old cut-throat razor, which he'd had so much difficulty in learning to use that he'd chosen to grow a beard, and a few toiletry items were all he owned in the world. Not exactly much to show for his two years of wandering this vast territory. He turned his face up to the sky, watching gray clouds gather above the mountains like some lack-lustre halo which had lost its ability to shine.

Just what he needed, to be caught in some downpour; yet what else could he expect. Winter was closing in on the area. He'd be lucky if it didn't snow. With an audible sigh, he turned up the collar of his second-hand army-fatigue jacket and began following in the wake of the bus. Perhaps he might come across a village, or at least a hill farm where he could offer to work in exchange for a small meal. He hadn't eaten since yesterday.

Hours later and he was still walking, or should he describe his gait as more of a hobble? The right sole on his only pair of boots had worn so thin that he felt every pebble, every rut and pothole he crossed. He sat by the side of the road to remove the offending boot. OK, strike the almost worn through, he laughed sarcastically as he poked a finger through a ragged gash in the leather. Looks like he needed to replace his footwear, but that option would be some time in coming given his financial status.

There was also the question of where he would buy them. He'd been climbing ever higher through the mountain pass and for many miles he'd seen no sign of civilization. It appeared that this narrow track of land between towering crags was too remote and isolated even for the natives to inhabit. Which meant he'd probably be sleeping in the open tonight... and going hungry. Water wouldn't be much of a problem, though, since the gray clouds had decided to exude their moisture in a steady drizzle.

'It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath:'

He felt that was a quote, but for the life of him he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before, or even to what it referred. His whole existence was like that. There were things that he was aware of; he just didn't know how or why he knew them.

Folding an out-of-date newspaper to stuff into his boot to cover the hole, Letour decided he still had a couple of hours of semi-daylight to go before he had to find a place to shelter during darkness. Unconsciously, his fingers strayed across the print. In this region, printed newspapers were hard to come by -- the locals too concentrated on their daily grind to pay much attention to what was happening in the big cities of their country. Nevertheless, Letour tried to pick up these papers whenever he had the chance. They seemed to hold some fascination for him, even if at first he'd had difficulty reading the text.

This particular paper had proved more useful than he'd anticipated, but it made him a little sad to see it being utilized to make a temporary repair on his boot. On the floor of a birdcage, or even to wrap up old fish seemed a more fitting end. Sometimes these strange ideas popped into his head, as if they were a reverberation from a time long gone. He found them comforting, though not perhaps helpful at this moment in finding him a place to rest for the night.

He rose and once more started trekking northwards. Thankfully the rain stopped after a short period, yet the wind had a sharper edge to it, maybe heralding snow. He lowered his head, leaning into the rising gale and soldiered on. The first warning that he was not alone came to him audibly, on a gust of the wind.

“Damn! Why did ye have to let me doon now, Genevieve? Couldn't ye have waited till I was closer tae home?”

A man's voice, and talking in some sort of English accent! Letour halted in shock, listening to make sure it wasn't the wind whistling through the gullies and trees... or his mind playing games with him.

There was a dull thud, followed closely by an audible yelp. “Oh, ye old devil! Ye didn'a have tae hurt me too. Though I'm thinkin' ye're probably blamin' the 'old goat' for kicking ye, and ye'd be right.”

“Hello?” Letour shouted as he headed towards the voice.

There was a short silence, then the voice asked tentatively. “Who's there?”

Walking quickly round a sharp curve in the road, Letour found the source of the sound. At the side of the track an old jeep, looking like a relic from the nineteen-seventies, was parked with its hood propped up, and from under the slanting metal a white face peeped, glasses set owlishly on its nose.

“Who are ye?” the stranger demanded, yanking his khaki-coloured pants up, over his protruding stomach and standing as tall as he could. In these remote parts, vagabonds often spelled trouble, only this one didn't look too threatening, his eyes weary and his body too gaunt, worn clothes hanging loosely on his tall frame.

Letour smiled awkwardly, though there was something reassuring about his lopsided smile. “My name's Letour and you seem to be having some problem.”

“Ye could say that,” the man by the jeep visibly relaxed and returned the smile. “My name's MacDonnell - - John MacDonnell. If I sounded unfriendly, it's just a bit of a shock tae hear someone speak English in this place at the back-of-beyond.”

“Just what I was about to say.”

MacDonnell wiped his fingers on a greasy rag, then held out his right hand, noticing that Letour hesitated for a moment, as though it had been a long time since he'd been offered a hand in friendship.

“I won't ask what ye're doin' here - - I'll save that for later. Right now, ye couldn'a have a look under the bonnet and see if ye can fix this auld lassie?”

“Pardon?” Letour shook his head in apology.
“Oh, ye dinn'a know any more about mechanics than I dae. Not tae worry. I suppose we can always shelter inside Genevieve for the night. Won't be too comfortable, but we'll survive. They'll send out a search party in the mornin'.”

“Genevieve?”

“This auld jeep!” MacDonnell rubbed the side of the vehicle. “It's one of my idiosyncrasies to name my possessions. Ye'll get used tae me in time.”
Although Letour nodded in agreement, MacDonnell thought the man looked a little uncertain. “Dinn'a look so worried. I'm no dangerous, and a night spent in a jeep is probably the best offer ye'll get tonight. I even have some of my lunch left over and a drop of the 'amber liquid' tae ward off the cold. Ye look like you could do with getting a few good meals inside of ye....”

Then Letour's eyes flashed and MacDonnell had a glimpse of the vitality the man must once have possessed.

“Oh, you mean the hood! And, you know, I think I do know some basic repairs. Why don't I take a look and see what I can do?” Letour moved to stand at the front of the jeep, then bent to peer more closely at its engine.

“Ye're American,” MacDonnell said with an expansive grin.

Letour automatically stood up and stared, not at MacDonnell, but off in the distance.

“Funny place tae find an American, but I suspect ye're thinking this is a strange place tae find a Scotsman... and it is.”

“What?” Letour slowly shifted his gaze to the Scotsman. “What did you say?”

“Ye're accent! It's American.” MacDonnell couldn't help but wonder why Letour seemed so shocked by this obvious information? “Or maybe it could be Canadian,” he speculated, shaking his head. “I never can tell the difference. Sorry! Disn'a matter anyway. Ye could be from outer-space and I wouldn'a care, as long as ye could help.”

At that comment, Letour's eyes widened, but he said nothing and stood immobile, frozen to the spot.

MacDonnell shook his head. The laddie cann'a take a joke, he thought. “Well, what are ye waitin' for then. D'ye know more than the name of this rusty lass?” He tapped the bonnet of the jeep. “We'll save the getting tae know ye bit till later. Let's see if ye can get Genni on the move again.... Ye know, Genevieve, the jeep!”

Letour leaned over the engine again, rubbing the side of his forehead and his eyes narrowed, but MacDonnell would swear it wasn't the engine he was seeing.

“Come on, man. The rain's startin' again, and it looks like it might hail.” MacDonnell's practiced gaze surveyed the lowering evening sky. “I doubt it's goin' tae be the best of nights tae be out in the elements. We could freeze tae death up here. So ye'll no mind if I hurry ye up a wee bit?”

MacDonnell watched as a slap of cold rain on the back of Letour's neck brought him to his senses and, after a quick scan of the menacing clouds, he must have agreed that a night spent in the jeep wouldn't be pleasant because he re-focussed on the job in hand.

“Right, but I can't promise I can fix this,” he said, his eyebrows lifting in awe as he appeared to recognize the ancient engine. Sometime, somewhere in his past life, Letour had worked on an engine like this, yet MacDonnell had the strange notion that the laddie had misplaced that piece of information.

There was silence as Letour got to work. “It's your fan-belt. It's worn out.” He detached the particular item from the fly-wheel and the thin leather strap came apart in his hands. “I don't suppose you have another?”

MacDonnell was grinning. “Knew ye'd be bound tae spot it. Ye look like a man who knows yer way around engines. Never was any good at it meself, but I do think there might be a spare one of them thingies in the back. Not due tae me, mind ye, but Marje, that's my partner... and my other-half, likes tae be prepared for every emergency. Just as well too, even if I dinn'a admit that tae her, ye understand. I'd never have survived more than a month in this wilderness if it wasn't for my Marje. She's a fine lass, but that's just between ye and me. I'd never hear the end of it, if she discovered she was indispensable!”

All the time he was talking, MacDonnell was retrieving a large metal box from the back of the jeep, which he opened at Letour's feet and rummaged through the contents. “Aha! Would this be what ye're looking for?”

Again, Letour stood mesmerized as he listened to MacDonnell's babble.

"Man, oh man. Ye're a strange one," MacDonnell observed, waving the package in front of Letour's face. "Are ye sure ye're feeling alright?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm fine," Letour affirmed, reaching for the replacement part as the fogginess cleared from his eyes. He studied the new fanbelt for a few seconds, comparing it to the old. "This should do the trick. Your Marje must definitely know her stuff. I'll have Genevieve fixed in a minute or two."

Listening to his new acquaintance's appreciation of his wife, MacDonnell grinned. So the laddie had been paying attention after all. "Ye get us movin, man, and ye've got yersel' a bed for the night. That is, I'm assumin' ye've no got anywhere particular tae be headin' tae?"

"I'm afraid not," Letour admitted, his face noticeably reddening in the fast-fading light, while his deft hands replaced the broken belt. "I was on the bus, but my ticket ran out, unfortunately, and I didn't have enough money to...."

"Hey, laddie, ye had an accident?"

"Sorry?" Letour looked questioningly at his companion.

MacDonnell pointed toward's Letour's hand. "I couldn'a help but notice ye're missin' a finger."

Letour lowered his head quickly and concentrated on finishing his task, ignoring the question.

"Sorry, I shouldn'a have mentioned it." MacDonnell was genuinely apologetic. He'd been too blunt. "Marje tells me I'm too nosy for my own guid. Always stickin' my tuppence worth in when it's no needed." His apology, however was overlooked as much as was the question, and MacDonnell lapsed into silence. His new friend wasn't much of a conversationalist, which was a pity. There was nothing better than a good chin-wag to pass the long nights of winter....

Completing the job, Letour lifted the rag which had been left stuffed in a corner of the engine compartment, studying his hands as he cleaned them as best he could. "It's done. Genevieve should be road-worthy now...." Finally he raised his eyes. "And if that bed is still on offer, I'd be really grateful."

"Course it is, man! Ye don't think I'd leave a body stranded out here in the middle of nowhere." MacDonnell hefted his rotund body into the driver's seat and switched on the ignition. The engine spluttered a little, then roared into life... if with the occasional cough. MacDonnell pitched his voice above the noise of his jeep and the forces of nature. "Guid work, laddie. Get in then, quickly now. We've still a fair way tae go tae get tae the test centre."

As Letour bent to retrieve his pack, he stilled. "Test centre?"

Once again MacDonnell suspected his words had chilled his new friend to the very marrow. ""Aye! Didn'a I say? We're a botannical team doin' research and conservation work in the primeval forest rounds these parts." He saw Letour visibly relax at the last piece of information. OK, so that was an improvement. "Most of the personnel come and go, but Marje and I have been here for years. We came out for a few months on a workin' honeymoon, fell in love with the place and never went home. Now we're the team leaders of the group... just a couple of auld eccentric gardeners. The research is pretty important, of course. Ye'd be surprised how many medicinal breakthroughs we've made over the years. For all that though, they still keep cuttin' down the forests for a quick profit. Marje and I are just tryin' tae protect what's left."

"Sounds like a good cause."

"Aye, it is. Now are ye comin' with me, or stayin' here tae freeze? I wouldn'a recommend the latter."

Letour needed no further encouragement and he hurried inside, slinging his possessions onto the back seat. "Thanks for your hospitality. I'm very grateful, believe me."

"Least I could do. Ye fixed my second best lassie right up." MacDonnell patted the steering wheel of his beloved jeep, then yanking the gearstick into place, he began the final stage of his homeward journey with a smile of relief.

For the first few seconds, the vehicle's gearbox grated in protest and her wheels spun in the gravel, but Genevieve dug in deep, making her way to firmer ground in the middle of the road, her speed increasing as her master changed gears and pressed down on the accelerator pedal.

MacDonnell switched on the headlights and the two men watched the icy rain slice through the beams as they travelled in the darkness. Both were happy to be out of the cold and damp, and a companionable silence reigned, until Letour spoke up, deciding to offer some information to his benefactor.

"I lost my finger in an... accident a couple of years back. I guess I was lucky. I could have lost my life, and I hardly notice it these days."
The Scotsman inclined his head a little, but he'd noticed the other man's slight hesitation. "A close encounter with death gives a body an appreciation for life. But I'm sensing ye dinn'a like givin' too much away about yersel'...."

"There's really not a lot to tell," Letour said dismissively, staring determinedly out the window, though there was little to be seen in the gloom.

His passenger was trying to head off the inquisition, so MacDonnell decided a little probing was called for. "Not sure I believe that. An American wandering around in this part of China, very far away from home... seems there might be a mystery in yer past." A sideways glance warned MacDonnell that his speculation was definitely unwelcome. The laddie looked physically sick, so maybe it was time to give him a break. "But dinn'a be worrying I'll give ye the third degree. Marje might call me an auld busybody, but even I know when to back off."

Letour's rising panic ceased somewhat and his breathing slowed back to a normal level. He swiped his hands on his trousers' leg, drying off his sweating palms. "Thanks, but I don't have much history... not really."

And that probably wasn't the whole truth either, MacDonnell thought, but for reasons unkown, he was prepared to trust this man. "Och aye! Ye dinn'a like questions. I understand. But ye know, if ye dinn'a have any particular place tae go, we might be able tae use you at the centre. Are ye as good with a hammer and nails as ye are with a spanner?" MacDonnell enquired, his voice with its deeep 'burr' sounding warm and friendly. "Genevieve needs someone tae look after her, and if ye happened tae be green-fingered, too, that would be an added bonus."

Since most of the jobs Letour had found in China consisted of labouring in the outdoors at various tasks, he nodded his head. "I can turn my hand to carpentry, and if being green-fingered means the same thing as having a green-thumb, I think I could manage," he said modestly.

"I can't promise how long we could keep ye, 'cause funding is always a big problem, but we just lost our local handyman. The wee bugger got a better paid job with a loggin' company. I suppose he had an extended family to take care of, but Marje and I couldn'a help feelin' betrayed. Dinn'a think ye'd be the kind of person tae let us down like that." MacDonnell gave another quick look at his passenger. "If ye wouldn'a mind workin' for bed and board and a wee bit of pocket money, the job's yers."

"I think I might like that." Letour settled back in his seat, stretched out the kinks in his neck and let the tension leave his body. "To tell the truth, I'm getting a little sick of being a nomad. I'd think I'd enjoy working for you, Mr MacDonnell," he answered politely, clearly feeling some sort of kinship with the amicable MacDonnell. "And I'm looking forward to meeting your redoubtable Marje."

"Guid, it's a deal," MacDonnell said with a grin. He was still convinced that some secret surrounded his new employee -- not exactly an unusual circumstance in this huge, enigmatic country. Yet, no matter how much his wife teased, he wasn't one to pry into what didn't concern him. Live and let live, was his motto. It was a necessary survival skill in this part of the world. "We'll shake on it later when I'm not so occupied with keepin' Genevieve on the straight and narrow. The roads around these parts aren'a exactly what ye'd find back at home. Oh, and my friends call me Mac. If ye're goin' tae be stayin' with us, ye should call me Mac."

The rhythmic movement of the jeep was lulling Letour to sleep and soon the soft, steady sound of his breathing filled Genevieve's interior. As MacDonnell drove the final few miles over the head of the pass and down towards the lake, he hummed an old Scot's lullaby in a slightly off-key voice. At his side, Letour's body swayed a little, but never stirred completely. The laddie might not have given away any clues about his past, but Mac was sure the American was a good man, and Mac prided himself on being a fair judge of character.

Marje would be happy with their new odd-job-man. She was always fond of picking up waifs and strays.... Aye, she'd give them both a right royal welcome when they reached home; a wood-scented fire burning in the stove to heat the hands and feet and a wee dram.... or two, to warm the insides. He just hoped she'd left the cooking to Li-ying. One thing Marje couldn't do was cook! Maybe he should have mentioned it to Letour. He'd let him think Marje was a paragon....

A staccato tip-tapping, like stones hitting metal, drew MacDonnell's glance upwards as the rain froze to solid pellets of sleet. He shivered, but noticed with concern that neither cold nor noise could rouse his passenger. The laddie was spent.

But this time Mac was wrong. Letour might be exhuasted, but too much information was spinning around in his head for him to fall into a deep sleep. Truthfully, he'd only closed his eyes to shut out any further conversation. He needed time to think.

An American! Because of the way he spoke English, MacDonnell, or Mac, or whatever his name was, believed he was American.... But he had no recollection. Could the Scotsman's supposition be true?

And which was it? American, Canadian... or Alien? He could discount the last one, couldn't he?

America did seem to beckon him, though the only thing he knew for certain was the fact that it was a large continent on the other side of the Pacific. Then there was the discovery that he'd known how to fix the jeep, and yet he'd never studied mechanics, not that he could remember. Still, his memory was just three years old, and one of those years was extremely hazy. Oh, boy, if he wasn't careful, he'd kick off one of his annihilating headaches again. That happened frequently when he tried to think of who he was, or where he came from. Right now he was probably in the best place he'd been for a long time, so he should just relax and enjoy the moment.

Which brought him to the job offer. How did he feel about that? Probably a sense of relief.

He'd meant it when he said he was sick of endless travelling, and surely it was safe for him to stop running now, at least for a time. A time to rest and recuperate. If he was stronger physically, then perhaps his mind would recover.

But more than anything, he was so weary of being alone, and though he had little to offer a friend, he did feel at ease in this man's company. As long as MacDonnell and his wife didn't expect too much of him in the relationship department, he might be happy at their test centre. Intuitively, he knew the place Mac was offering him wasn't 'his' home, the one he'd been searching for in his wanderings, but it was probably the closest offer to a safe haven he might ever get. Sadly he acknowledged that happiness was not an option for him, but contentment... maybe.

An illusive peace pervaded Letour's body and soul and he finally drifted into sleep, while in his dreams 'the woman' smiled.

*****

tbc

This is another poignant chapter, Jenni. I so love the way you show us "Letour's" utter innate goodness. Lacking any memory of who he is, knowing nothing about what sort of ideals he used to believe in, and lacking superpowers as well as money, he'd rather get thrown off the bus himself than sit idly by when a pregnant woman is being threatened:
His instinctive need to protect the weak... I love it, Jenni. Seeing that I'm just posting a story where I'm making Clark behave extremely selfishly, I must tell you that it warms my heart to see you getting Clark's wonderful goodness so perfectly right.

In fact, Clark doesn't just get thrown off the bus for saving a woman from a beating. Later in this chapter, Clark gets thrown out of a village for helping another would-be victim:

Love it, Jenni.

I was sad to see that Clark had been left in China all alone for two years now, with no memory of who he is. Also, I was a little disappointed that he hadn't gotten any of his superpowers back. I thought that when those constant injections of Kryptonite ended, perhaps his powers would return. But maybe he was being poisoned with Kryptonite for such a long time that his powers were destroyed for good? Or maybe the reason for his powerlessness is that he still has Kryptonite embedded in his brain, which would also explain his persistent amnesia?

I must repeat that I love the way you manage to strip Clark of almost everything that is *him* - his memory, his name, his powers, his country, his friends and his family, anyone at all who knows him - and still you manage to make him so essentially him. And let me repeat what I said before, you paint such a beautiful picture of Clark's essence and innermost self.

And I bet you must have enjoyed yourself writing that delightful Scotsman, John MacDonnell! Even I had a lot of fun reading his delightful Scottish accent. Hmm... you are Scottish yourself, Jenni... did you, by any chance, model Mr MacDonnell after some nicely quirky neighbour of yours? And... hey! MacDonnell's Jeep is called Genevieve? Well, that reminds me of two things. The first is Camelot, which I associate with high romance. Somehow that name seems like a tribute from John MacDonnell to his wife, like another way of telling her how much he loves her. (Even though I do seem to remember that Genevieve may ultimately have been unfaithful to King Arthur.) But if we invoke Camelot and high romance here, certainly the name of the Jeep could be a sort of tribute to Lois and Clark, too?

The second thing the Jeep remends me of is you, Jenni! Well, you did have John MacDonnell call his transportation "Genni", didn't you? And you said that this isn't a Mary Sue story, but I'm not sure that I totally believe you - and hey, who can blame you for writing yourself into the story as a jeep?

It was so good to see such a nice man - and his wife! - take Clark under their wings. I loved the way John MacDonnell was thinking of Marje, making her come out like a cross between the two most important women in Clark's live, Martha Kent and Lois:
Yes, maybe John MacDonnell should actually have mentioned that to Letour. Maybe that would have reminded the man without memory of another beloved woman who wasn't a good cook?

But it was great, at least, that John MacDonnell could make Clark understand that he was an American. But, Jenni, you are almost too ironic when you make poor Clark think this:
Ahh, poor Clark! But things do look a little better now, Jenni. I'm feeling a lot more hopeful. I'm hoping you can find a way to bring Clark back to his family before his children grow up too much. This sentence was so poignant:

All in all, this is a beautiful chapter, Jenni. Another one. I'm very much looking forward to the rest of your story.

Ann

Ooops! Wrong place. Delete me, please!