And then he was alone.
Alone.
Shattered.
Distraught.
A hand grasped his.
Softly murmured words floated into his consciousness.
He wanted to turn on her with the full force of his anger and pain - to shout, to scream, to plead with her.
But she wasn't Lana.
Lana had never touched him like this.
Lana had never spoken to him with such understanding.
Lana had never let him forget that he didn't belong.
The call of unconsciousness came, luring him into its haven of peace.
He allowed drowsiness to dull his mind.
Her hand stayed with him.
And her voice was the last thing he knew before sleep reclaimed him.
Part 7
When Clark awoke, the first rays of daylight were lazily drifting across the dirt floor.
He sat up and stretched experimentally.
His body felt OK. He could move without pain. The dragging cloak of fatigue had lightened to a shawl of apathy.
He was strongly tempted to drop back onto the mattress and close his eyes in a miserable attempt to forestall the approach of the new day, but the other bed was empty. The woman was up. Had she left him? Was this his chance to escape?
He stood and moved silently to the doorway.
The woman was crouched at the fire. Her thin dark braids were splayed across the top of her rounded back.
She didn't turn to face him.
It gave him the opportunity to study her. She was slight of body. She must have dressed already this morning because she was wearing a different skirt and blouse than those she had been wearing yesterday.
Not wanting to be caught staring aimlessly, Clark unwound the bandage from his hand and examined the laceration. The sides of the wound had knitted together, leaving only a thin line of scarring.
He was sure the woman would want to check it.
He rolled up the bandage and went into the hut to place it on the table. Back at the door, he stood, grappling with a mind stubbornly stuck in neutral.
The woman was still poking at the fire. Clark waited, figuring she would eventually have to move. When she realised he was awake, she would take charge, just as she had done yesterday.
"Lois!"
At the call from beyond the gate, she rose and hurried away without acknowledging Clark's presence in the doorway. "Good morning, Romaric!" she greeted brightly.
Clark couldn't see through the gate and he couldn't elevate himself to look over it, so the newcomer remained out of sight. "Is everything all right?" The voice was male and spoke English with an accent.
"Yes, we're fine. How's Diddi?"
"He is eating with Gislane and Zephyrin. Sylva said she will take him out today with herself. I have brought your breakfast."
"Thank you, Romaric. Put it near the gate, and I'll come and get it."
Lois didn't move until the shout came from the other side of the gate. "All right. I am moved away."
She hurried forward to open the gate. "Tell Diddi I miss him," she called.
"Has there been sickness?"
"No."
"I talked to Matymbou this morning. He said he will not shorten the quarantine time. He will hear from you after five days and decide then."
"OK." Lois moved forward, out of Clark's sight. "Would you mind bringing the rug I am making?" she asked. "The hook? And the fabrics?
"Of course. Anything else?"
Lois chuckled. "If I'm going to be here for five days, the biggest danger is not going to be disease, but dying of boredom."
"Has he said anything?"
"Nothing really." She came back through the gate, carrying a tray that held two large cups and two plates containing fried eggs, chunky slices of meat, and a breadstick. "Thanks for bringing us breakfast, Romaric."
"You are welcome."
Clark breathed in the aroma of fresh coffee and waited for Lois to notice him.
She finally did. "Good morning," she said, her eyes darting across his chest, down his legs, and to his feet. "You're looking much better this morning. Oh good, you've taken the bandage off your hand. How is it? Feeling better?"
Clark's fingers twitched, but he remembered just in time to maintain the pretence of language incompatibility.
Lois was occupied with holding the tray so she couldn't take his hand as she had done yesterday. She didn't seem perturbed, however. She moved closer to him, bringing the tray to within a couple of inches of his chest. "Here's our breakfast," she said. "Take the bigger serving."
He took one of the plates. Lois repositioned the tray along her forearm, freeing one hand to give him two utensils that resembled a knife and a pointed spoon. She also gave him a cup of coffee and then, without another word, she went back to the fire and sat on a rock, settling her plate on her lap.
Clark stood there, holding the plate and cup.
What should he do now? Go and join her on one of the rocks that surrounded the fire? Or go back into the hut and eat alone?
She had begun eating; he could see her elbows moving as she lifted the food to her mouth.
He withdrew into the hut and sat on his bed, bending low to place the coffee on the floor.
The meal was good. The eggs were cooked to just the right solidity and the meat, although not something he recognised, was thick and flavoursome. The bread was fresh, crusty on the outside and soft inside.
Clark emptied his plate and picked up his coffee.
The fog of loneliness closed in on him.
Why was the woman behaving so differently from yesterday?
What had changed?
And why did he even care that she wasn't fussing over him anymore?
Wasn't this what he wanted? To be left alone?
When he drained the last of his coffee, he still had no answers. He took the plate and cup to where Lois was sitting by the fire, finishing her breakfast with coffee. She reached up to take them, giving him a smile. "Thanks."
She put them down on the rock next to her and continued drinking.
Clark retreated to the hut and stood between the beds, overcome with indecision.
What was he supposed to do now?
He sank onto the bed.
Lois's withdrawal felt like desertion whipping across his already battered heart.
It was illogical.
Unreasonable.
She owed him nothing.
She had promised him nothing.
She had found him as a stranger and given her time, her expertise, her medicines, and her food to help him.
But now, it felt as if she had abandoned him, too. Yesterday, she had been there for him. Today, she was gone.
He should have known this would happen.
But he couldn't have predicted that her withdrawal would feel just as raw as when he had mourned the death of his parents. Just as bleak as when he had finally accepted that, not only was he not human, he was weirdly alien. Just as shocking as when he had stared with dumbfounded horror as Lana had calmly packed up her clothes, her personal belongings, and a few of her childhood mementos, and left the apartment he had thought was their home.
Clark dropped his head into his hands.
He had been determined that he would not let anyone within stabbing distance of his heart. But, after less than a day, it had happened again.
He didn't know the strange woman. He had no wish to know her. He'd been planning to leave her.
But instead, she'd left him.
His eyes remained dry, but inside, he heaved huge sobs of desolation and despair, loss and loneliness.
He yearned to be alone.
But aloneness only intensified his anguish.
Then, a hand lay across his forearm.
And she crouched next to his legs.
"You miss Lana, huh?"
That name felt like a blade slicing through his heart.
He made a sound through his tightly constricted throat. A sound that vocalised his pain.
Her thumb glided over his bare skin. "It's OK to feel desolate," she said, the softness of her voice trickling through the wall of his pain. "It's OK to feel so confused and helpless that you can't imagine how you're going to cope without her for the rest of your life. But you don't have to. All you have to do is concentrate on today. You've suffered a terrible loss. Give yourself some time to heal - physically, emot-"
"I don't want to heal," he ground out.
Her head rested against his shoulder for the briefest second. "You'll never be less able to deal with this than you are now," she said. "We have five days. See how you feel at the end of that time."
Clark moved his head from side to side. He couldn't stay here for five days. He couldn't be with her for that long.
"I asked Romaric to bring a rug I'm making. I'm going to sit in the sun and work on it. If you'd like to join me, you're welcome. You can help with the rug. You can sit and do nothing. You can watch me. You can talk - about everything or about nothing. You can stay silent." Her fingers pressed into his arm. "When I first saw you, I was petrified you were going to die. I called you 'Mr Miracle' because I figured that is what we were going to need to keep you alive. But, physically, you're going to be fine. There's hardly a mark on your back now." With a final squeeze of his arm, she rose to her feet. "I see such incredible strength in you, Mr Miracle. And it's not just on the outside. You're going to make it through this." Then she walked away, leaving him alone in the hut.
Clark felt utterly crushed by her words. He wasn't strong. He was weak. So weak, his wife had left him. So weak, his wife was carrying another man's child. So weak, he had spent years chasing the impossible.
So weak, he wanted to curl up and die.
But the woman, Lois …
How had she known about Lana?
How had she known he could understand English?
How had she known he'd needed her?
Clark didn't want the hurting to stop. He wanted it to be a perpetual reminder of the cost of allowing himself to believe he could feign belonging on this foreign planet.
He couldn't imagine the jaws of torment ever releasing his heart. His life stretched before him - long, interminable years of regret packaged in wretched seclusion.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't face even one day, let alone thousands and thousands.
He couldn't.
But, Lois …
Lois had told him not to think ahead. Lois had said he just needed to think about today.
Today, he needed to find a way to leave.
But, right now, sitting in the sun with her sounded better than he'd thought anything would ever sound again.
Clark rose unsteadily to his feet.
He paused in the doorway of the hut.
Lois was twenty yards beyond the fire, sitting cross-legged on an animal-hide mat with a large circular rug spread out in front of her. About half of it was bare brown burlap-like material, and the other half was a jumble of riotous colour.
A third of the way around the rug was another mat, presumably placed in anticipation of him joining her.
The scene - the woman, the gentle warmth of the morning sun, the steadily flickering fire, the splash of colour from the rug - reached out to Clark and took a hold of his heart.
He should run away. He should hurry past her without even a glance in her direction. He should tear out of the gate and not stop until he was sure he had outrun the memory of her kindness. Her empathy. Her touch. Her voice. Her understanding.
Clark moved forward with slow steps. He reached the edge of the rug. She looked up with a smile. "Sit down," she said with a gesture to the second mat. "I positioned yours so you would get the sun on your back."
Clark lowered himself onto the mat, feeling awkward and out of place.
Then he remembered - she had said he didn't have to do anything.
So, he didn't.
He closed his eyes and let the sun massage its soft rays into his back and shoulders.
When he opened his eyes, Lois's head was down, seemingly intent on her task.
He breathed in. Out. In.
He waited.
She didn't speak.
The silence purred between them. Not angry silence that spoke more eloquently than shouted words. Not ominous silence that foretold of a coming explosion of wrath.
Just … silence. Comforting silence.
Clark breathed in again. As he released the murmur of air, he felt the tension loosen its grip on his body.
He didn't know where he was or how he had gotten here.
He didn't know what he would be doing next week, or tomorrow, or even later today. He didn't even know what he wanted to do anymore.
But for now, it was enough to watch the sun glisten in Lois's dark hair and follow her nimble fingers as she worked on the rug.
~|^|~
The rug-making was repetitive work - threading strips of fabric through burlap material with an implement similar to a crochet hook and leaving the two ends loose on the same side so the rug resembled a colourful hairy dog. Lois didn't usually work on the rug during daylight hours - she was too busy harvesting herbs and roots with Diddi, or teaching him English, or treating minor ailments and injuries, or making salves and medicines with Sylva as the older medicine woman passed on her knowledge to the younger.
But today, Lois was glad of the work. It engaged her hands while leaving her mind free to think about Mr Miracle.
Her heart ached for him. He was suffering - not physically, as he had been yesterday, but with wounds of grief that penetrated to far greater depths than the strange green rock had.
Had Lana's death been preceded by a long, slow illness? Or had it happened suddenly? Perhaps as the result of an accident?
He still loved her. He still loved her with his big, tender heart. His love was emblazoned on his face; inscribed in his eyes; evident in his every movement.
Lois glanced up from the rug. Last night, she had tussled with numerous strategies before concluding that time would be his greatest healer. Fortunately, time was a commodity in abundant supply in the slow-moving world of the Bangala.
But time needed patience as its partner, so going against all her instincts, she had decided to step back and grant him the freedom to seek her company or remain tightly bound in his cloak of isolation. Her strategy was not without risk, and Lois had watched him carefully, holding her breath when he'd moved out from the hut and silently rejoicing when he'd chosen to sit with her.
His proximity had made it doubly hard to keep her curiosity in check, and she had repeatedly stifled its darting questions as she had pretended complete absorption in the rug.
They had five days, she reminded herself. Five days for Mr Miracle to become accustomed to her presence. Five days for him to begin to accept her as a friend.
Right now, his pain was almost intolerable, but it would slowly fade. And as it did, his barriers would dissolve.
Lois knew.
She had lived behind huge, impenetrable barriers in Metropolis. Her foremost feeling for her family had been one of tiresome responsibility, not love or loyalty. Her best friend had been Perry White, but the all-consuming nature of their work had ensured their association never moved into the realms of real friendship. The desire to remain employed had forced her to curb her disdain for Mr Olsen, the young entrepreneur who had turned a few computer skills into a seven-figure annual salary. She had treated her other colleagues as though they were her subordinates, elevating no one to the position of respected equal.
Many of the citizens of Metropolis would have known her by name. Not one could have said they knew her.
She had grown hardened to the violence that shaped her world. Death, destruction, pain, injustice, corruption … they had meant nothing more than stories to be chased, written, and quickly forgotten. She had chronicled a crumbling society but had never permitted the tragedy of its decay to touch her.
Until she had come to Africa and the violence had turned on her, demanding her attention like a fist clasped around her throat.
She had been incredulous at first. Then annoyed. Then angry. Then frightened.
Very, very frightened.
She could have died. Would have died. Except …
Except she had been gathered into the world of the Bangala - a world where the blight of violence and exploitation and greed had no foothold.
Experiencing true acceptance for the first time, her walls had gradually disintegrated.
Romaric had risked his life to save hers.
Sylva had treated her injuries.
Gislane had prepared appetising meals to entice her languid appetite.
Matymbou had been a steadying rock of wise counsel as she had stumbled through the first days of transition.
And Diddi - surely no one had dissolved her indifference as effectively as her son had. His tiny fingers had reached out for her, his smile had soothed her torment, his needs had given her reason to look beyond her own situation, his unconditional love had softened her calloused heart.
Now, Mr Miracle faced the same journey of adjustment.
Lois was reasonably sure he was American, although there was something about him that suggested he had spent some of his life, perhaps during his childhood, in a foreign country.
He didn't quite fit the pattern of the all-American boy. Almost, but not quite.
After an hour of silence had passed, Lois's need for movement and interaction could no longer be denied. She secured another strip of fabric into place, put her hook on the rug, and arched her back as she stretched towards the sky. "I think it's time for coffee," she announced.
Her companion looked up, a sprinkling of interest in his face.
His response spurred Lois to risk all of their progress in the hope of gaining another step forward. "Would you mind telling me your name?" she said. "Or, if you don't want me to know your name, just give me something I can call you." She chuckled to lighten the moment for both of them. "I can't keep calling you 'Mr Miracle'."
He mumbled something - it sounded a bit like 'Kate' - but Lois wasn't able to catch what he'd said. "Excuse me?" she said. "I didn't hear you."
"Kent."
"Kent? That's what I can call you?"
He nodded, although his eyes had lowered to stare at his feet. Intuitively, she guessed that 'Kent' was not the name his friends and family had used in his former life. It was another barrier. But it was a smaller barrier than the one it had replaced, and that fact flooded her with optimism.
Lois rose from the mat. "OK, Kent, we have to decide whether we're going to prod the fire back to life or whether we're going to call on the Bangala equivalent of room service."
Without a word, Kent stood from the mat and went to the little pile of wood that Romaric had collected for her yesterday. Lois went to the fire and poked at the coals.
She would have gone with the room-service option - it would have been much quicker and would probably have provided better coffee, too. But she was willing to wait - willing to do anything to help Kent emerge from his self-imposed prison.
Recalling his hunger last night, Lois left him rekindling the fire and went to the gate. "Tsumbu?"
"Yes, Lois?"
"Could you ask Gislane if we can have some cookies?" she said, speaking the Bangala language.
"Yes, Lois."
"Thanks, Tsumbu."
When Lois turned back from the gate, Kent had the fire flickering with new gusto and he was collecting water from the barrel Romaric had filled yesterday.
Kent set the pot above the fire. Obviously, he had some outdoor experience in his past. Perhaps he had lived in a rural area. That would make his acclimatisation easier than if he'd been solely a city-dweller.
Was he ready to talk yet? Perhaps not about the anguish of losing his wife, but maybe a few facts about his life? How he had come to be in Africa? How the green stones had gotten into his body? How he had healed so remarkably quickly?
Lois took a moment to study him from behind as he set the pot above the fire.
His back was covered in a lacy network of rapidly fading scars. Even the deepest of the divots were marked by only minor imperfections in the wide expanse of toned muscle rippling under his creamy skin. He had regained full use of his lacerated hand.
"Lois?"
She turned towards the gate. "Coming, Tsumbu."
"Gislane sent cookies for you."
"Thanks, Tsumbu."
"And Sylva said to bring you this oil. She said it's citrus, and sage, and … and a few other things, too."
Lois smiled as she realised Sylva's intention. "Cinnamon? Cedar wood? Lavender?" she guessed.
"Yes. I think she mentioned all of those."
"That's perfect," Lois said, sending silent thanks to Sylva for her suggestion. After hearing Tsumbu move away, Lois opened the gate. She picked up the plate and tucked the vial of oil into the pocket of her skirt.
Kent's eyes fell to the plate as she approached him. "Take one," she said, using their close proximity to examine his chest. The part of her that was medicine woman continued to marvel at the speed of his recovery. The part of her that was woman was similarly mesmerised by sculpted curves of his body. "H…How's the coffee going?"
He chose a cookie from the plate, apparently oblivious to her admiration. "The water hasn't boiled yet."
"Did you add the coffee grounds?"
"I didn't know where they are kept."
"I'll show you. Then you can make coffee whenever you want it." Lois beckoned him to follow her into the hut and pointed to the row of earthenware pots under the table. "The coffee is in the biggest one," she said, lifting it from the floor. "The rest have varieties of tea. You can help yourself to any of them, but if you want a specific tea, ask and I can point you to the right pot." She handed the coffee to Kent. "There's a mesh bag near the fire. Put the coffee grounds in the mesh bag and put it in the water pot."
She watched him as he followed her instructions, ostensibly to ensure they got decent coffee, but in reality, she was studying his broad shoulders, his large manly hands, his long muscle-bound legs, his -
"Is that right?" He looked up from his task.
"Perfect," she said, although she hadn't taken sufficient notice to discern whether he had used coffee grounds or dirt.
He picked up the pot and returned it to the hut.
He was different from every other American she had known.
His heart was still soft. That's why he was suffering so intensely now.
How could someone so sensitive have survived in the world Lois had left behind?
He couldn't. Not indefinitely.
Whatever twists of fate had brought him to Bangala land, it was imperative that he stay.
Here, he would find community. Family. Friendship.
Here, he would find a place where he could belong.
Here, he would find people worthy of his trust.
Here, he would find a home.
