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.
Part 5
As she waited for the water to heat, Lois poked at the fire, not because it required her attention but because it gave her something to do as she pondered the deepening mystery of the unknown man. As his level of consciousness had improved, it had become increasingly evident that he was intentionally avoiding interaction with her. His expression glazed over when their eyes met. His head turned away when she approached him. Other than a few words in a language she didn't recognise, he'd made no attempt to communicate - no signs, no gestures, no indication he understood she was trying to help him.
His inexplicable behaviour had incited her curiosity, but it had also reduced her fears that his presence in Africa was connected to the events of five years ago. If his mission had been to locate a white American woman living in the Congo rainforest, it should have been obvious - even in his state of fluctuating consciousness - that he'd found her.
But he'd shown no fear, no recognition, no interest.
His remoteness was more than just a language barrier.
He'd seemed impervious to all her attempts at communication.
Did he have a medical problem she hadn't detected? A brain injury, perhaps? Or something else altogether? Could he be deaf? Disabled? Autistic?
Or was it something as simple as - in common with most of his gender - he felt absurdly self-conscious about requiring any form of medical attention?
Sickness turned Matymbou into an irrational grouch, likely to tantrum at the slightest provocation. Romaric simply refused to admit anything was wrong, regardless of compelling evidence to the contrary.
Lois stood from the fire and surveyed the surrounding area. The chips of green rock were strewn in irregular piles a couple of yards from her patient. She reached for her belt and unhooked the leather pouch Romaric had made for her. She counted each piece of rock as she put it into the pouch.
One hundred, forty-seven.
"You poor guy," she mumbled under her breath, shuddering at the pain he must have endured.
Leaving the pouch near her digger, Lois added the warm water and calendula oil to the pulp of comfrey leaves. She took the cloth and container and sat beside Mr Miracle. She waited. When he didn't seem to notice her presence, she put her hand on his shoulder. "Sir?"
His head turned slowly towards her. His eyes were open, but whatever he was feeling was carefully tucked away behind his deadpan expression.
"I'm going to clean your wounds now," Lois said, giving him a brief smile before taking refuge in the task of wringing out the cloth. She'd washed his back when he'd been unconscious. Washing him while being scrutinised by those haunted brown eyes was going to make this seem more personal.
Intimate, even.
Don't be silly, Lois told herself. He's just a patient.
But, already, he was more than just a patient.
He was an enigma. A bundle of unanswered questions.
In her role as a medicine woman, Lois had witnessed more suffering than she cared to think about. She knew this man's injuries would stay with her for a long time - even if he didn't.
But none of that was as important as getting him clean. He needed the antiseptic agents she had put into the water. An infection now would postpone his healing and prolong his suffering.
She started at his neck, being extra careful when passing the cloth over the depressions left by the rock pieces. She swept across his broad shoulders with long strokes, noting with satisfaction that his skin had cooled, losing some its fiery redness.
She took each of his wrists and lifted them to gain access to his sides. She slid the cloth up the curve of his ribs and onto his chest.
And what a chest it was.
Even scarred with scratches and disfigured with the debris his wounds, it was the most magnificent chest Lois had ever seen - chiselled to perfection, lean and broad, breathtaking in clarity.
She'd known, in a peripheral kind of way, from the moment she had turned him over, but she'd been trying to avoid dwelling on the perfection of the man's physique.
Brusquely reminding herself that she was a medicine woman, not a giddy teenager seeing a partially naked male body for the first time, Lois gave his pectoral muscles a cursory wipe and turned her head to glance down his body.
It was quite a distance to his feet. When standing, she was sure he would be several inches taller than she was.
She worked down to his stomach, tracking the network of lacerations that bore testimony to the joint assault of the rock chips and her knife. Just above his hip, there was an obvious nick from her blade. She turned to his head, her apology already forming, but his eyes had closed.
Lois shuffled sideways, past the remains of his jeans, and began washing his thighs.
They were columns of corded muscle.
He must have been an athlete. She scrutinised his face again, searching through dim memories of the Daily Planet's sports pages for a clue as to his identity.
She found no recognition, but her eyes locked onto his face, held there by the absolute misery etched in every feature.
Was he still in great pain?
Or had his increasing awareness brought realisation of the colossal difficulties he faced in returning to his life? The improbability of being reunited with the people he loved? Perhaps he was worrying about them, knowing they would be worrying about him.
Lois picked up his left hand, ostensibly to wash it again. There was a faint groove at the base of his ring finger.
He was married. Had his ring been lost in the explosion?
Where was his wife? Had she been with him in Africa? Or was she back in his home country?
Would people come looking for him? Had anyone kept track of his whereabouts with enough accuracy to find one man deep in the vastness of the African rainforest?
He must feel incredibly alone. He must be grieving for all he had lost.
Even if he were able to speak her language, she wouldn't be able to offer any realistic hope of a return.
Whatever he'd had, whatever he'd loved, whatever he'd treasured - all of it had almost certainly slipped beyond his reach.
But at least she could try to alleviate his physical discomfort.
Remembering the damage to his back, Lois quickly washed his lower legs, taking a few extra moments to clean the grit from between his toes. Then she rose, drying her hands on her skirt as she moved back to his head.
"Sir?" she said, peering down into his pale, drawn face. "Perhaps you will be more comfortable if we get you off your back." She wriggled her hands under his shoulder and waist and manoeuvred him to a position on his side. Reaching across his body, she angled his upper leg, using his knee to provide support.
As she brushed away the twigs and blades of grass from his back, she gasped.
His remarkable healing had continued. The redness had faded; the swelling had subsided.
She was sure he was going to be all right.
Physically, at least.
Lois emptied the medicine bag of its remaining items, placing them neatly on a rock, and then filled the bag with long feathery leaves from a nearby kosso tree.
Back beside her patient, she lifted his head and positioned the makeshift pillow under it. His eyes were open, fixed on a point somewhere in the distance.
Compassion for him overwhelmed her. She knew the anguish of losing everything. She knew the lonesomeness of being an outsider. She knew the difficulties inherent in trying to adapt to strange and unfamiliar ways.
Lois brushed her hand through his hair. "It's going to be all right," she said, hoping that even if he didn't understand her words, he would draw comfort from her tone and gesture. "You're going to be just fine. We can look after you. We can help you. And if you can't get home, you can find a new home here. I know. I lost everything, too. But it's not the end. I hope you can believe that."
She would never forget the moment - over five years ago - when she had realised there was no way back.
She had lost everything - her family, her friends, her career, her future, her dreams.
"It won't be as bleak as you're thinking," she said. "You can start again. You can. It won't be the same, but it won't be all bad. I can help you."
Her eyes drifted to his left hand. That's where they were different. He was married. He had a wife. Maybe children, too. When Lois had come to Africa in search of a story, she hadn't left behind someone she loved. She'd lost her successful, modern, Western lifestyle. But this man, this distant and remote stranger, had probably lost the love of his life.
~|^|~
He'd begun to anticipate her touch.
Her hand glided across his head; her words glided across his heart.
Yes, he'd lost everything.
Yes, he knew there could be no return.
But he and the woman weren't the same.
He wasn't in a foreign country; he was on a foreign planet.
He'd never had a home.
He'd been an outsider for as long as he could remember.
He'd tried to blend in. He'd tried to live as they lived. He'd loved. He'd dreamed. He'd hoped.
He'd lost.
Never again, he promised himself fiercely. Never again.
~|^|~
For the first time since Diddi had announced the presence of a green man, Lois felt the peace of the surrounding forest permeate her emotions.
Perhaps her patient could feel it, too, because some of the tension seemed to have drained from his body. Some of the despair seemed to have faded from his face.
She had done all she could for his injuries. In her opinion, what he needed most now was kindness, understanding, and patience.
Lois smiled at that thought.
Kindness had been almost extinct in the world she had left.
She probably wouldn't have recognised it even if she'd encountered it. She would have assumed it was merely a cover for greedy self-interest.
Understanding - well, she'd kept her interactions strictly superficial. She had kept her own feelings tightly locked away and had gone to great lengths to avoid the burden of other people's pain.
And patience.
A little gush of amusement slipped silently past her lips. She still disliked waiting for anything. But she was learning. As Matymbou had told her a thousand times, "You can't push the sun across the sky, Lois. It'll move at its own speed regardless of how much you jump around like a monkey with a horde of fleas biting his butt."
So, it was a little surprising that she was content to let time meander by as Mr Miracle's body worked its own cure. She finger-brushed his hair, speaking aloud when her thoughts solidified enough that vocalisation didn't require much effort and sliding into silence when her mind wanted to skitter over a rummage of divergent ideas.
After about half an hour, she realised that she was still rubbing his scalp.
Her hand stilled.
Had he minded?
The Bangala were tactile people, rarely interacting without a touch to an arm or shoulder or hand. Initially, Lois had hated it. It had taken weeks for her to overcome the desire to flinch and draw back every time a well-meaning hand had intruded into her personal space.
Sylva believed that touch was an agent of healing.
Lois cautiously rested her other hand on the stranger's shoulder and continued making long leisurely tracks through his dark hair.
"You're going to be all right," she said again. "I know you're feeling shocked and confused. I know you have been through a terrible time. But please try not to worry. Please trust me."
She knew she was asking more of him than she had been capable of at the beginning. Life in Metropolis made distrust a survival skill.
Was that why he averted his eyes? Because he didn't trust her? How could she convey to him that everything was different here?
She mused over that until the sun had moved behind the surrounding trees, casting ever-increasing shadows across the little clearing and infusing the air with the chill of the coming night.
They had to get to the quarantine hut before darkness fell, even though moving was probably going to hurt Mr Miracle and possibly cause his healing wounds to re-open.
"Sir?" Lois leant over him. He didn't respond, so she ran her hand from his shoulder, past his elbow, and gently squeezed his lower forearm.
His eyes opened. Grudgingly, she thought.
She put her other hand on his shoulder and applied a little pressure. "Can you try to sit up?"
He twisted and slowly rose to a sitting position. His head dropped, and he stared at the ground between his knees.
"Take a couple of deep breaths," Lois said. "It will help with the dizziness."
There was no obvious response, so she waited, crouched next to him, her hands on his shoulder and wrist.
"Anywhere hurt when you moved?" She skimmed his arms and shoulders, watching for him to flinch. Seeing no evidence of discomfort, she said, "We need to leave. Wait here while I pack everything away."
Lois took the bag from where his head had been resting on it, emptied it of the leaves, and packed away her medical kit, hoping he would realise she was preparing to leave.
After dousing the fire, she surveyed the little area.
The only thing left was the pouch containing the rock fragments she had dug from Mr Miracle's body.
She picked one out and squatted next to him. "Do you know what this is?" she said, not expecting him to respond.
His head lifted slowly. His hand reached forward, and he took the pebble from her.
~|^|~
The small chunk of rock lay in his palm, causing a strange throbbing sensation to radiate through his wrist and along his arm. He tilted his hand, and the pebble rolled down his fingers, scorching a trail of fire. Stung into action, he jerked to his feet, swung his arm back, and thrust the pebble towards the river. It lobbed five yards away.
The world swayed as waves of vertigo assaulted him.
The woman was right beside him, her hand on his shoulder. "You don't want it?" she asked.
No, he didn't. He didn't want it near him. It weakened him. It unnerved him. It accentuated his differences. It made him an alien in a hostile world, without any means of defence.
With a rush of hostility, Clark snatched the pouch and took out another piece, wincing at the pain of contact. He swung his arm again. This effort drove the pebble a few yards further than the first, but it still fell pathetically short of the river.
He crumpled to the ground, defeated.
The woman took the bag from his cramping, burning grasp and strode towards the river, stooping to pick up the two pebbles en route. At river bank, she tipped the contents of the bag into the palm of her hand and then turned to Clark.
"Do you want me to throw them away?" she asked, miming her words with a thrusting action.
Clark gave her the barest of nods.
She hurled the rock fragments she had dug from his body into the flowing water. She turned to him with a triumphant smile that lit up her face. "They can never hurt you again," she declared.
But the damage had been done. His bizarre abilities had gone. All of them. Sight. Hearing. Strength. Speed. Flight.
Gone.
Many times in Clark's life, he would have bartered every one of his strange powers in exchange for the chance to be a regular guy.
Now, they'd gone. But he still wasn't human.
The pain in his hand and arm had abated, but heavy fatigue cloaked every muscle.
He was weak of body, imprisoned of heart, broken of soul.
But he was free of the green rock.
She had released him. This strange woman in this unknown place had released him.
She walked back to him and captured his hand in hers, pulling him to his feet. "Come on," she said. "I'm hungry. Let's get to the hut."
The place where the fire had been was now a pile of wet and blackened bark. She stopped to pick up the bag, but she didn't release his hand.
He was trapped. Not by physical strength or the strange power of the green rock, but by expectation and perhaps even obligation.
Panic besieged him. He had to get away.
He had to be alone.
He tugged, trying to disconnect his hand from hers.
She turned to him, a smattering of surprise in her expression, but before she could speak, a call echoed through the trees.
"Lois! Lois!"
Lois? Was that her name? It seemed so, because with a little smile of apology, she made a signal that Clark interpreted as an instruction to stay where he was.
Still carrying the bag, she weaved through the trees. Clark took a couple of steps forward and leant against the nearest trunk, his breath coming in sharp jabs. Ahead of him, the woman stopped and began calling to the man who had shouted her name.
This was Clark's moment of opportunity.
He took a step, inclined sideways, and collapsed against the tree again as the nearby trunks tilted and skewed. After a couple of breaths, he focussed on a tree about five yards away, pushed off, and determinedly headed for it.
He reached it and clung to it.
He had to get away.
Something was gnawing at his stomach. His legs felt like torpid pillars, anchoring him to the ground. A thick fog had descended into his brain.
But none of that diluted his need to escape.
Her laughter pierced his mind, jolting him into action. He turned away from her and blindly ran in a desperate quest for solitude.
~|^|~
"Is he going to live?" Romaric had asked Lois in English.
"I think so," she replied. "He has shown a remarkable ability to heal."
"You are a medicine woman with much skill."
She brushed off his compliment with a little burble of laughter. "I only did what Sylva taught me to do. Have you talked with Matymbou?"
"He said to tell you that you cannot return to the village until the quarantine is at end. And no one can be with you. Even Diddi."
"The stranger hasn't shown any signs of sickness," Lois said. "I think he was injured."
"You cannot come back into the village for five days."
"I won't," she said. "By then, I think he'll be almost fully recovered."
"Has he woke up?"
"Yes."
"Has he said words?"
"No. I don't think he speaks English. But I think he might understand some of what I say."
"Diddi says the stranger is like you."
"He's white," Lois said. "But white people live in many different countries of the world."
"You don't know him?"
"No. There's no reason to think he came because of me."
"Has he looked like he might hurt you?"
"No. He's as gentle as a lamb."
"A what?"
She laughed again. "Don't worry, Romaric, he won't hurt me."
"If he does anything bad, call out. I will make a shack near the quarantine area. Tsumbu will be there at day, and I will be there at night. Diddi has put his books into my hut. Gislane says he can sleep with her son until you come back."
"Thank you," Lois said, listening behind her for sounds of her patient. She needed to get back to him.
"Is he well to walk? Do you need me to move him?"
"I think he can walk. We're going to the hut now."
"Be careful, Lois."
"I will." Lois heard a crash and spun around, sprinting through the forest in the direction of the noise. Mr Miracle was face-down in the undergrowth. Lois rushed up to him. "Are you all right?" she said, lifting his shoulders. He allowed her to haul him to a sitting position but kept his head down.
Lois took his hand. There was a gash at the base of his thumb, already oozing blood.
"Aw, poor guy," she said, curling his fingers into his palm. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you." She gently clasped his slumped shoulder. "Can you get up?"
With her help, he clambered to his feet.
Lois put his arm over her shoulder and curled her arm around his back. "This way," she said. "It's not too far."
They shuffled forward through the undergrowth, veering to dodge low-hanging branches. Soon, they were both panting and his weight was pressing into her shoulder.
Should she call Romaric?
Lois stopped and checked her patient. His face was pale and there was a light film of sweat across his forehead. His eyes lifted. He looked at her. Directly. And didn't jolt away.
She smiled as a surge of renewed strength and hope revitalised her flagging body.
They could do this.
"You OK?" she said, putting her other hand flat on his chest. "Can you go a bit further?"
He didn't flinch at her touch. His head moved - just a tiny nod, but it was enough to convince Lois that he understood she was trying to help him.
They could get to the hut without extra assistance.
If Romaric came, he would be quarantined, as well. The hut was tiny, but lack of space wasn't her only consideration. Her instincts said the stranger needed time. Space. Quietness.
In this case, quarantine might prove to be more restorative to the patient than protective of the people.
Lois doggedly moved forward, step after step, directing the man where to put his feet and using all of her strength to keep him from falling again.
She had been correct in her estimation of his height. He must be at least six foot tall. He was going to be a giant among the men of the Bangala.
Finally, they reached the gate of the quarantine enclosure. Lois pushed it open, and they stumbled forward, past the little campfire with the pot of tagine gently steaming above it, through the door, and into the circular hut with its shaggy roof of dried straw.
She lowered Mr Miracle onto one of the two ground-level beds and crouched next to him as their duet of heavy breathing filled the tiny space.
She smiled into his eyes. "We made it."
His eyes slid shut, but this time, she felt it was due to exhaustion rather than the desire to close off contact with her.
Was he hungry? When had he last eaten? Or was rest his greatest need?
Lois arranged the pillow under his head and positioned his long legs on the chaff mattress. "It's going to be all right," she said. "You can rest now. The tagine is ready. I'll get you some as soon as we've both caught our breath."
She waited a little longer than that, crouched next to the bed, her hand cupping his as she stared at his face and wished she could peek into his mind.
He was different from anyone she had ever met - either at home in the United States or here in Africa.
There was something about him. Something that transcended his aloofness and touched her.
Something strong and undeniable.
Something deeper than shared skin colour.
Something beyond the strange circumstances that had thrown them together.
Something that made her wonder if she would look back on today's meeting as one of the most significant moments of her life.
