"OK, Mr Miracle, it's time to turn you over and see what needs doing on your front."
Having already tucked his right arm in close to his body and positioned his ankles together, Lois burrowed one hand under his shoulder and put the other on the side of his neck. She slid her fingers across his skin, checking for hard, raised nodules that would indicate the presence of the green rock chips.
Feeling none, she clasped firmly and increased the pressure on his shoulder while supporting his neck.
His shoulder rose. His chest lifted off the flattened grass. Lois continued pulling until his shoulder was at its highest point. Then, she guided his head onto her lap, using her knee to stop him from collapsing onto his back.
Lois looked down into his face, seeing it fully for the first time.
She gasped.
His eyes were open!
Part 4
By sheer force of will, he had bullied his mind to recede to a place where her touch couldn't intrude and the pain was reduced to a dull throb on the edge of his awareness.
Then, suddenly her voice had shattered his pretence and her hands were tugging on his shoulder.
He'd relaxed his muscles, and the ground had fallen away.
Disoriented, his eyes had jolted open.
Her face filled his vision - the woman whose voice and hands kept hauling him back from the haven of nothingness.
His eyes locked in hers.
Then, she smiled.
He slammed his eyelids together, shutting her out.
Shutting out her presence. Shutting out her face. But most of all, shutting out her smile.
~|^|~
"Sir?" Lois said. "Sir? Wake up!"
But there was no flicker of response.
She stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers. "Wake up. Please wake up. You're going to be fine. I know I hurt you, and I'm really sorry about that, but it's almost over. You'll be feeling much better soon. Please open your eyes again. I'm trying to help you."
But the man's face remained devoid of expression.
Accepting that he had slipped away again, Lois leaned forward to check the front of his body. As she had hoped, his back had taken the brunt of the explosion. There were about ten pieces of the strange green rock implanted in his chest and a few more dotted on his thighs and lower legs.
Deciding the remaining pieces had to come out, Lois shuffled backwards, supporting his head and hip as she slowly lowered him onto the grass.
"Sorry, Mr Miracle," she said. "I know your back is sore and the grass isn't very soft, but it will only be for a short time." She touched his face again, reliving the moment when their eyes had met. As much as she yearned to be able to communicate with him, perhaps it was best that he remain unconscious for a little while longer. "I'll go and get my knife, and we'll get this done."
~|^|~
He turned his head a few degrees and peered out through the narrow slit between his eyelids. She was squatting by the fire, holding a knife in the flame.
Her dark hair was braided, incorporating rows of red and yellow beads across her scalp and falling to her shoulders as numerous thin threads.
She was dressed in a wildly colourful skirt that hung from her waist to her ankles and a soft shirt of bright yellow. Her feet were bare.
Her youthfulness surprised him. He'd expected her to be older … more like a mother.
"Maman!"
The voice of the child pounded through his mind.
It wasn't his child. Lana had said it wasn't his child.
He slammed his eyes shut, frantically searching for the dark and faraway place where he could hide in the shadows of solitude.
~|^|~
Lois rose to her feet at the sound of her son's call. She passed the moabi tree and saw him in the distance. "Don't come any closer, Diddi," she warned. "This is a quarantine area now."
"I know, Maman," he said, speaking English. "But Romaric said I could come and tell you we have made the quarantine hut ready. And Gislane says she will send you fish tagine before the sun dips. And Sylva said to ask if you need any more medicines."
"I don't need anything more right now. Sylva included everything."
"Is he awake yet?" her son asked.
"Not yet. But I think he is improving."
"Do you think he's going to die?"
"No, Diddi," Lois said decisively. "I don't think he's going to die."
"Do you think he'll want to talk to me when he's awake?"
"Maybe," Lois said, wondering if it were her influence that had made Diddi so inquisitive. "But you'll have to wait until he's feeling a lot better."
"He looks like you, Maman. Perhaps he has come to get you and take you back to your other people."
Lois heard the hint of uncertainty in his tone and wished it were possible to reassure him with a hug. "I don't know him, Diddi," she said. "He might not be from my country. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. I'm not going anywhere."
"He could learn English," Diddi said. "Like Romaric did. And Sylva."
"Maybe he could," Lois conceded.
"Will he stay with the Bangala, Maman? Like you did?"
"He's too badly hurt to even think about leaving," Lois said. She didn't add that unless he had superb communication equipment and a network of people willing to help, the decision might not be his to make.
"Does he have malaria, Maman? Is that why he's green?"
"I have only seen injuries, Diddi," Lois said. "No disease. I think he fell out of the corkwood tree."
"I don't want you to get sick," Diddi said forlornly, reminding Lois that, for all his maturity, her son was still a young child. In her home country, he would have only just started elementary school.
"I won't get sick," she said.
Diddi brightened suddenly. "Romaric said I could stay with him while you're in the quarantine."
"That's very nice of him. Make sure you're helpful for him."
"Yes, Maman," Diddi said dutifully.
"Go back to village now," Lois said. "I have to look after the man."
"OK," Diddi said. He waved enthusiastically. "Bye, Maman."
"Bye, Diddi."
~|^|~
She'd gone. Left him.
Would she come back?
He hoped she would stay away.
She was human. She was female. She was whole. She belonged.
He was alien. Male. Alone. Despised. Rejected. Broken.
Then, she was beside him again. He could feel her knees touching his arm.
"OK, Mr Miracle. We need to get these last few pieces out." Her falsely bright tone did nothing to camouflage her apprehension.
Her accent was American. Where was he? Had Tempus dumped him somewhere in the United States? Or perhaps further south? The Amazon? He had glimpsed a heavily treed area as he had fallen, and now he could hear the breeze rustling through the leaves overhead.
The blade of her knife pierced his burning skin - right above his heart - and his breath exploded through his lips.
"I'm sorry," she said shakily. "We only have a few more pieces. I know this is going to be more difficult as you begin to wake up, but I'll be finished soon. Then I'll give you some willow bark tea. It works just like a pain pill."
He felt like an animal being lured into a trap. She would coax him with soft words and sweet promises. Then she would cast him away like trash.
He rued the moment of weakness when he had let down his guard and opened his eyes.
He'd seen her. Seen her hope. Seen her determination.
She wasn't going to let him die.
Her gouging came again, concentrating his suffering in one place. A few seconds later, he felt something give, and a more generalised stinging sensation replaced the laser of pain. Then the cycle began again.
He forced himself to relax. He needed to be calm. He needed to plan his escape to a prison of isolation.
~|^|~
Lois had cleared his chest, but there were still four pieces in his thighs and half a dozen in his lower legs.
Every piece she had dug from his chest had come at a price. His hands had clenched. His heart had accelerated.
She had to try to give him some relief.
For him. For her, too.
Because, even though she knew there was no choice, she wasn't sure how much more pain she could tolerate inflicting on him.
~|^|~
She pressed moisture to his lips. He allowed his mouth to fall ajar.
"Good," she said, as her hand slid under his head and lifted it a few inches from the ground. "I'm going to put a few drops of water in your mouth. Just relax and try to swallow."
The easiest course was to do as she had instructed. Liquid dripped into his mouth and ran slowly to his throat. He swallowed, realising how dry his mouth had become. He opened his mouth a little wider, hoping she would understand his request for more.
"Well done," she said as more cool water flowed past his lips. He swallowed again.
She removed the container. "This is tea," she said. "It's warm. It will taste different from the water, but I've added honey, so it shouldn't be too bad. It will work like a pain pill and help you feel more comfortable."
She touched the container to his damp lips. Warm liquid trickled into his mouth. He flinched as the bitter taste assaulted his tongue.
"Swallow if you can," she said as she stopped pouring. "It will make you feel better."
He swallowed, spreading the taste to his throat.
"Again?" She poured more into his mouth.
He swallowed. She poured. He swallowed again.
It occurred to him that he was placing a lot of trust in an unknown woman who had no reason to help him.
But closely following that thought was the acceptance that if she were poisoning him, she would be doing him a favour.
He didn't want to live.
He would never trust … never love … again. And a life lived without love was worth nothing.
"Well done." Her voice intruded again. "Here's some water."
The water was cool, sweeping away the taste of the tea.
She held the container against his lips, keeping the flow steady - not so much that he felt overwhelmed and in danger of choking, but sufficient to satisfy his thirst.
When he'd had enough, she laid his head on the ground.
He felt better.
The pain had subsided to a dull ache that resonated through his body, peaking to sharp jabs in his legs.
Her hand brushed across his head. "Can you wake up?" she asked. "Can you tell me where it hurts the most?"
He pulled his mind from the lingering fog. He needed a strategy. He could no longer fake unconsciousness after swallowing the water.
He needed another tactic to stop her from encroaching into his world.
He could pretend he didn't speak English. That would lead her to assume he wasn't American - which he wasn't - and absolve him from the need to interact with her.
Then, as soon as he was strong enough, he would run away.
He fluttered his eyelids and allowed his eyes to open. The first thing he saw was the woman looking down at him. Her deep brown eyes, brimming with concern, captured him. Her smile seized him. "You're awake," she proclaimed as if that were good news.
He arranged his face to blankness and muttered a few words of Danish.
"You don't speak English?" the woman said.
"Jeg taler intet." I speak nothing.
She covered her disappointment with a soft smile. "Where are you hurt?"
My soul is shattered. You can't fix that with your potions. He wrenched his gaze away and looked beyond her to the trees above.
She left him, and he closed his eyes again, seeking numbness.
But instead, questions flooded his mind. Where was he? Who was she? Why did she speak like an American and dress like an African? Who was the child who kept taunting his semi-consciousness?
And most importantly of all - how long before he would be strong enough to get away?
He lifted his head to look down his body. He was naked except for his jeans, although the legs had been ripped away, leaving frayed edges at his thighs. His shirt, his shoes and socks - they had gone.
His lower legs had a smattering of the green rock Tempus had used to debilitate him.
It hadn't seemed to affect anyone else. Only him.
He slumped back to the ground. Mere exposure to the rock had caused him excruciating pain. Tempus had driven pieces into his body, escalating the pain to the point where his mind had shut down in the tornado of agony.
But she had taken them out.
That was the sharp pain.
That's why she'd had a knife.
She was freeing him, piece by piece.
She was trying to trick him. As Lana had tricked him. By pretending to care, by -
She was back again, hovering over him, looking down at him with those brown eyes of liquid solicitude.
"You must have a lot of questions," she said as her hand rested on his neck. "I know I do." She paused, a little line of concentration appearing between her perfectly shaped eyebrows. "Your pulse is strong and steady." Her fingers drifted across his forehead. "There are still a few more pieces of the green rock in your legs. They have to come out. We'll wait a little while longer for the tea to kick in, but I figure it's going to hurt."
It wasn't the pain that bothered him. It was having her close. Feeling her concern every time she touched him. Breathing in the slight cinnamon fragrance that clung to her. Hearing her quiet words. Seeing her smile of encouragement.
Knowing that if she knew the truth about him, she would run away and leave him to a slow and agonising death.
But she didn't know. She would never know.
He could protest. He could tell her not to remove the rest of the green chips.
But they hadn't killed him yet. They probably wouldn't. They would just inflict a lot of pain and keep him weak, prolonging the time he would be reliant on the woman.
They had to come out.
She busied herself, adding more bark to the fire, periodically glancing over to him. He watched her, quickly closing his eyes every time her head began to turn in his direction.
She was back at his side again, holding the knife in her hand. "I'm going to remove the rest of the pebbles," she said, grasping his hand. "If it gets too much, raise your hand and I'll stop." She lifted his hand and looked at him. "Understand?" She lowered his hand and raised it again. "This means stop, OK?"
He closed his eyes and turned his head away. His body tensed in anticipation of the knife digging into his traumatised flesh. Instead, the touch he felt was her hand - lightly landing on his shoulder.
"After I've got each piece out, I'll apply some salve," she said. "It will probably sting, but only for a short time." Her touch left his shoulder and took his hand, lifting it from his side. "If you need a drink, put your finger to your mouth." She manoeuvred his hand and rested his fingers on his lower lip.
She carefully laid his hand on his chest, departing with a little squeeze that could have meant anything or nothing, but it felt as if she were trying to instil him with courage for the ordeal ahead.
The point of the knife dug into his skin, close to his shin bone. He gasped as the pain sharpened on one spot. The knife dug deeper, twisting a few agonising degrees. He clenched his fists and bit down on a groan. The pressure increased, and suddenly, he felt movement, and the poisonous chip of green alloy slid from its bed.
Before he could release his pent-up breath, voracious stinging devoured his leg. Her hand reached through the cloud of anguish and rested on his forearm.
She stayed there, not moving, as the pain subsided.
"Only five more," she said. "We're nearly there." She took in a deep breath that lifted her shoulders.
The knife lowered towards him. The tip touched his skin. He fixed his gaze on her face. Her lower lip caught in her teeth as she dug into his flesh.
He held his breath as her knife probed deeper.
Then, her mouth eased to a ghost of a smile, and she lifted a small piece of green rock from his body, holding it up for him to see.
"How did this get into you?" she asked. "And do you have any idea what it is?"
The roar in the capsule must have been an explosion. Had Tempus meant to kill him? Maim him? Condemn him to a life of constant pain? Obliterate his powers forever?
"There are two pieces close together, so I'll salve the whole area," the woman said.
She seemed intent on minimising his suffering. That disconcerted him.
She returned to her task, and the point of the knife punctured his skin again.
He slid his hand across his chest. His fingers met a patch of stickiness. He continued and found a small indent that hurt when he prodded it.
How had the rock gotten into the front of his body when the explosion had been behind him?
It must have ricocheted off the side of the capsule. Perhaps that was why Tempus had put him in the tiny room. To increase the damage.
Tempus had known Clark Kent was an imposter. Tempus had known he was different. Known he didn't belong.
And he'd wanted to destroy him.
The stinging pain shot through his leg as the woman applied the salve again.
Clark waited, knowing it would fade. It did.
"One to go," she said, looking directly into his face. "You've been so brave."
Brave? He'd never been brave. A life immune from physical pain hadn't prepared him for the onslaught of emotional anguish, and his instinct had compelled him to run away. He was still running.
Clark closed his eyes as her knife dug into his body for the final time.
The pain that had plagued his body for so long was almost gone, but instead of relief, he felt only exhaustion and utter defeat.
He had thought he was the strongest man in the world. He had thought he was invulnerable.
He had been wrong. About everything.
He'd thought he was a husband and soon-to-be father. He'd thought his wife loved him. He'd thought that, together, they had everything.
He had nothing.
He recalled the last time he'd seen Lana. He conjured her face to harsh reality in his mind.
He'd thought she was beautiful.
He'd loved her so much that he would have gladly died for her. Not a day passed that he hadn't felt overwhelming appreciation for her willingness to accept him irrespective of his oddities.
But she …
She had … What had she said?
She had grown tired of his strangeness. She had decided she didn't want to live her life with someone who wasn't human.
When he'd challenged her, reminding her of their marriage vows, she'd said she hadn't realised that loving someone like him would be so difficult.
Someone like him.
So, while he'd continued in naïve ignorance, she'd found someone else.
She'd discarded the alien and given her love to a man.
Who could blame her?
What woman wanted to be married to a freak? A freak who couldn't even give her the baby she'd wanted.
She'd lost hope after a year. She'd said she wanted to stop trying, so their sex life had dwindled to almost nothing.
He had been patient. Loving. Supportive. Guilt-ridden with the knowledge that their failure to conceive was almost certainly his fault.
Then, she'd announced she was pregnant.
There were no words to describe the joy he'd felt.
For the first time, he'd felt just like every other man - a husband, a father.
But then …
It's not yours.
Those words had the power to destroy dreams. Inflict pain. Incite devastation.
"All finished."
The woman's voice pierced his mind as sharply as her knife had pierced his body. Clark hauled himself back to the present.
She was looking down at him, smiling. "The ones in the front weren't too deep," she said. "But we need to guard against infection, so I'll wash you with antiseptic."
She was going to wash him? Again?
It was too personal. Too intimate. He wouldn't be able to pretend to be oblivious this time.
But the alternative was to protest. Or run away. And Clark didn't have the strength for either.
