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.
Part 8
Clark deliberately took his time returning the pot to the hut. When Lois had suggested coffee, his reaction had been both positive and automatic.
But already, he regretted his moment of carelessness.
Lois had noticed and had used it to wheedle information out of him.
It wasn't really wheedling, he acknowledged. It was a perfectly reasonable question - one he had felt compelled to answer.
But not with the whole truth.
'Clark' was … 'Clark' was just too personal. And carried too many memories of Lana.
He never wanted to be 'Clark' again.
He wasn't sure he wanted to be 'Kent' either, but it had been the first alternative he'd been able to squeeze from his sluggish mind.
It didn't matter what she called him. He would be gone soon.
But first, he had to get through the next half an hour.
It was one thing to sit together in silence while she had worked on the rug. But saying nothing over shared coffee was going to get awkward.
What if she started asking questions?
Reverting to silent sullenness was only going to underline that he had behaved like an ungrateful oaf. And since she'd realised he could speak English, he could no longer cower behind the supposed language barrier.
He wondered how she had known he'd been faking. And how she'd known that Lana had left him. But if he voiced those questions, she was going to ask why he had been so desperate to avoid communicating with her.
She probably had a hundred questions about him. And if she asked, he had to say something. But if he gave her any information, it was probably going to encourage her to enquire more deeply.
And that was not going to be straightforward.
There were gaps in his knowledge. He wasn't entirely sure how he had gotten to Africa.
If he told her what he had surmised - they threw me out of an airplane - she was going to react with justified exasperation that he had repaid her kindness with an absurdly unbelievable story.
Lana was the only person he had ever trusted with his deepest secrets.
I'm an alien, Lana. I'm not from Earth.
You're not human?
No.
She'd smiled … eventually - a twisted smile that had never quite concealed her dismay.
When she'd accepted his proposal, he'd tried to believe it was proof of the strength of her love that she was prepared to marry him despite his differences.
How could he have been so wrong?
He pushed aside thoughts of Lana and leant against the doorway of the hut, surveying his surroundings. The warble of the simmering water accompanied the slight rustle of the breeze through the overhead leaves. In front of him, the cleared area gave way to a grove of trees and beyond that, the sapling fence enclosed them, separating him and Lois from the rest of the world.
He had craved solitude. But he'd never imagined it would be a seclusion of two.
He watched as she folded up her rug and placed it in the shade of a large tree. She picked up the two mats and arranged them - close together - on the fringe where sunlight dappled the grass.
An idea filtered through Clark's mind.
If she seemed eager to talk, he would ask her questions. She must have a story. She was a white American woman, living with a people she called the Bangala 'somewhere in Africa'.
Clark moved forward and waited by the fire. A few moments later, she came and stood beside him, holding two wooden mugs. He poured the coffee, and they walked over to the mats.
Lois offered him the plate of cookies, and he took one, trying to think of an appropriately casual question that would launch her into the story of how she had come to be living with an African tribe.
"Your hand seems to have healed enough that it's not restricting you at all," she commented.
He unfolded his fingers, but didn't make a move to show her the quickly fading scar.
She leaned towards him and took his hand. "That's amazing," she said, lightly sweeping her fingertips over the base of his thumb. "Yesterday, I was petrified you were going to die. I've never known anyone heal as quickly as you do."
She'd probably never known anyone who could fly, either. "I'm not a regular guy," Clark said, and then immediately wished he hadn't been so easily drawn into admitting something about himself.
Lois laughed. "I know how that feels."
This was his chance. "You do?"
"Sure," she replied, finally remembering that she still had hold of his hand and releasing it. "We're somewhere in the middle of Africa. Do I look like I'm a local?"
"No."
"I'm the only white woman, the only American, the only person here who has experienced modern Western society, the only person who knows anything about the great big world beyond the boundaries of the Bangala."
"Why do you stay?" Clark had often wondered what he would have done had it been possible to return to his own people.
"Initially, I stayed because I had no choice," Lois said. "Then I stayed because I had responsibilities. Now I stay because this is my home, these are my people, and I can't imagine living anywhere else."
He'd stayed because he had had no choice. He'd taken on responsibilities … he'd made commitments. But he'd never been able to shake the feeling of being an outsider. "How long have you been here?"
"Over five years."
"You haven't tried to go back in all that time?"
"No."
"Could you go back now? If you wanted to?"
"It would be difficult. And risky. I haven't thought about it for a long time."
"If there was a way - safety guaranteed - would you go back?"
Lois thought for a moment as she nibbled on a cookie. "No," she said. "I wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because the only benefit would be my folks knowing I'm alive. But I wouldn't stay, which would cause a lot of unnecessary conflict."
"How can you be sure you wouldn't stay? You might feel differently once you're back there."
"I lived in a big, modern, sophisticated, lonely, and desolate city. It had everything deemed necessary for life in the nineteen nineties, but nothing of real value."
"It's different here?"
"Very different. We have no television, no computers, very little communication with the outside world, and no access to medical advancements. But we also have no violence and very little crime. We don't just exist in the same geographical location, we share our lives."
"There must be other reasons why you have chosen to stay."
Lois smiled - almost as if the true answer silently preceded her spoken words. "Before, I was one faceless person in a sea of hurrying, harrowed, indifferent, uncaring humanity. I was surrounded by people, but completely alone. Now, I belong to a community of friends and family who care about me. I have ties here. I don't want to go back."
Clark could feel envy frothing up in response to her declaration. She had left a place that was her home by birthright and had found belonging among people who were different. He had never had a home - either by birthright or adoption.
"You can stay, too," Lois said nonchalantly. "The Bangala -"
"No," Clark cut in. "No. I'll be leaving as soon as possible."
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You have means to communicate with people outside? Will they be looking for you? Do they have transport?"
"No one will be looking for me."
Lois leant closer to him. "Kent," she said, "maybe you don't fully understand how isolated we are. The Bangala people seem to be born with an innate knowledge of their own land, but their awareness of the world beyond the boundary is negligible. They will help you as far as they can, but that won't get you back to civilisation."
"I don't need help." He sounded churlish, but nothing was going to prevent him from leaving. And he didn't want to get back to civilisation.
"Do you have a map?" she asked. "A compass?"
"No."
"Are you going to be able to retrace your steps? Go back the way you came?"
Clark grunted. "No."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to leave. I want to be alone."
"How long have you been in Africa? Do you have some local knowledge? Which plants are poisonous? Do you know the dangers? The animals? Their hunting habits? Do you have basic survival skills?"
"I'll be all right."
She huffed with frustration. "You sound like a typical city-dweller who believes that surviving the perils of urban life has made you invincible in all other environments. There are no McDonald's or Walmarts out here, you know."
Her tone stung. "I know there are dangers," Clark said.
Her hand reached across and rested on his knee. "Don't you care what happens to you?" she asked softly.
"No. I don't."
"Because of Lana?"
He swung his leg away, and her hand dropped.
"Don't you think it would help to talk about what happened?" Lois asked.
"No."
"I think you should stay here."
"I can't stay here."
"Yes, you can. Matymbou -"
"I don't want to stay here."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not African. I'm not Bangala. I don't belong here."
"Neither do I. We can 'not belong' together."
That was the last thing he wanted. "I appreciate everything you've done for me," he said, realising he sounded distinctly unappreciative, "but I'm not staying."
Lois stared at the ground for a long time. Suddenly, she rose from the mat. "OK," she said, looking down at him. "But at least have the sense to tell me before you leave. I'll organise food, a water bag, basic medical supplies like insect repellent, some strong shoes, a sleeping net, and whatever information I can get from the men who have gone beyond the boundary."
"Why are you helping me?"
She didn't answer straight away. Clark held his breath, wondering if she were about to berate him with the full force of her exasperation at his stubbornness. "Because I'll never forget being where you are now," she said quietly. "And because you're alone. And you're hurting. And you were injured. And you need friends."
He had no defence against that.
But Lois wasn't finished yet. "Mpe zambi nalingi yo." She turned from him and marched past the fire and into the hut.
Clark stayed under the tree, sipping the rest of his coffee. He tried not to look for Lois, but his eyes kept returning to the doorway of the hut.
She had been assuming he would stay permanently. His decision to leave had disappointed her.
But she still wanted to help him.
Which only proved how little she knew of him.
She didn't know he was an alien invader.
She didn't know he had spent most of his life masquerading as a regular guy.
She didn't know he would never belong anywhere.
He turned his head away from the hut and stared at the far fence.
Immediately, Lana's words assaulted him again.
You're different.
I can't live like this anymore.
I want to be normal.
I want a real marriage, not an intergalactic experiment.
It's not your child.
How could she have gone to someone else? Who was he? Where had she met him? How long had it taken her to decide to obliterate her marriage vows and start a new life with someone else? Had she agonised over the decision or discarded him with no more thought than she would give to a pair of ill-fitting shoes? How long had she been with the other man? How often had she lied to cover her meetings with him? How long had she been unhappy in her marriage? Had she ever been happy?
She'd said she had thought his differences wouldn't matter.
That had been his life's dream - to be with a person who thought his differences didn't matter.
But they did.
They always had.
They always would.
He had to get away.
He couldn’t stay with Lois, pretending he was a regular guy.
And he couldn't tell her his secret. He couldn’t. Not ever.
What had she said to him as she had walked away?
It had been a statement, not a question. It had been about him.
And he felt sure it had been something positive. Affirming.
For reasons that were utterly devoid of logic, he wanted to protect the fragile embryo of her approval. Sure, after he'd gone, she would probably think of him as a fool, but that was infinitely better than her knowing he was an alien freak who had tried - and failed - to be a man.
~|^|~
A spherical object skipped over the bumpy dirt and stopped a yard from his feet.
Clark looked up. Lois was grinning at him. "Wanna play?" she asked.
Lois had just returned their lunch plates to the unseen presence behind the gate, and Clark had been wondering what happened next. "Play what?" he asked.
"Anything. Volleyball. Soccer. We can adapt the rules to suit ourselves."
Clark bent low and picked up the ball. Several criss-crossed layers of string comprised the outer covering. "This is a ball?"
"Yep. You take a buffalo bladder. You blow it up until it’s the size you want. Then you enclose it in twine."
"Won't it pop?"
"I doubt it. The kids are pretty rough with them. A ball usually lasts a couple of months before Romaric has to replace it."
Clark dropped the 'ball' and was surprised when it bounced up to him with only a minor deviation.
"So … shall we make a net?" Lois asked with evident enthusiasm. "Or a basketball ring? Or a soccer goal?"
"You seriously want to play with a ball?"
"We have to do something," Lois said. "And if I sit around any longer, I'll be in danger of exploding." She grimaced. "Whoops. Sorry."
"Sorry?"
"The green stuff in your body. I figure you were in an explosion."
Clark decided not to confirm or deny her theory. "We're not evenly matched."
"You're recovering from injury. I'll go easy on you."
"That wasn't what I meant."
Lois chuckled. "Let's get two forked branches and shove them into the ground. We'll put a lighter stick across the top. We can pile up some loose twigs behind it to act a bit like a net. Then we could take it in turns - one trying to kick goals, one defending them."
Clark stared at her dumbly, his mind bereft of excuses.
"Come on, Kent," Lois said. "It will be fun."
'Fun' was something that had slowly leached from his life over a period of many years. "OK," he said without any enthusiasm. "I could give you a head start of five goals."
"Don't be too quick to give away an advantage," Lois said. "Maybe I'm the Bangala champion."
"Are you?"
She grinned. "I guess you're going to find out."
She turned and walked towards the row of trees in front of the fence.
Clark followed her because he sensed that if he pitched his disinclination against her enthusiasm, he was going to be swamped.
Fifteen minutes later, they had assembled a rough goal. Lois had directed the operation, adding features such as support branches angled against the uprights that gave Clark some confidence the structure might actually survive the ball being pounded into it.
Lois scrutinised it, her hands on her hips. When she turned to him, her face was lit with a smile of satisfaction. "It's perfect," she said. "Just as good as Romaric and the boys make."
She drew two long strips of rug fabric from her waistband, hoisted her ankle-length skirt to her mid-thighs, and began tying it in place.
There was a large round scar on the outside of her left knee, stretching down the curve of her calf.
Clark quickly averted his eyes.
"I was shot," Lois said matter-of-factly. "It got infected." She rotated a few degrees, allowing him free access to look. The scar was rough and reddened, sharply contrasting with the smooth lightly tanned skin around it.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I'm not," Lois retorted. "The bullet hit my leg, not my upper body. The infection slowed me down long enough that I had time to reassess my life. Before coming to Africa, I had made it a point of pride never to trust anyone, but I had to trust Sylva and what I deemed to be her primitive treatments." She grinned. "Look at me now - the leg's good enough that I'm going to whip you at our game of soccer."
Clark felt his mouth twitch and a challenging rejoinder jump to his tongue. He smothered both. "We'll see," he said.
"Do you want to defend or attack first?"
"I'll defend," Clark said, walking to the middle of the goal.
"I get three shots," Lois said as she dropped the ball at her feet. "Then you get three shots."
Clark nodded, his attention fixed to the ball and Lois's bare feet.
She nudged the ball forward. It met a tuft of grass and veered to her right. Anticipating she would kick across goal with her right foot, Clark shuffled a few inches to his right. She continued dribbling, manoeuvring the ball closer to goal, always keeping it within range of her right foot.
When she was about ten yards away, she suddenly skipped, and her left foot struck the ball, shooting it past his outstretched left hand.
"Goal!" Lois screamed, her hands raised skywards. "That's one."
Clark picked up the ball from the pile of twigs and threw it back to her. "Good shot," he said. Although now he knew she was a left-footer, he wouldn't be so easily tricked again.
Her second attempt was a carbon copy of her first, and as she approached, Clark leaned left in anticipation of her left-foot strike.
It didn't come. She kicked with her right foot and had the ball through the goal posts just as he began to react.
"That's two," she sang out happily.
After returning the ball, Clark balanced his weight evenly on his feet, his hands poised and ready to spring in either direction. He watched the approaching ball with fierce concentration. When she was still fifteen yards away, her right foot swung and the ball flew in a loopy trajectory high to his left.
Clark jumped. His fingertips grazed the ball, knocking it over the top of the crossbar.
"Great save," Lois shouted. "I thought I had you again."
Clark picked up the ball and headed for the 'field'. He met Lois as she walked to the goal. She grinned at him. "You need a perfect set to beat me," she said.
Clark set the ball on the ground. He glanced up, saw Lois waiting in the goal, and poked at the ball with his foot. It shot forward further than he had been expecting. He adjusted, moving to the ball and caressing it towards goal. He sensed Lois move to her left, so grasping the moment, he swung back and kicked, aiming for the gap to her right.
He mis-kicked completely, and the ball skewed away to the sideline.
"Tough luck," Lois said. "You hit a clod of dirt. That's why you didn't get good connection."
Clark said nothing as he retrieved the ball. He placed it on the ground and lifted his eyes, noting the ground-level obstacles between him and the goal. After planning a smooth course forward, he slowly edged the ball to the wide right.
He sensed Lois moving to her left. His instinct was to jam it to her right, but at the last moment, he adjusted the swing of his foot to aim at the smaller gap to her left.
The ball veered too far. As Clark groaned, it began to curve through the air. He waited, his body tense, his breath suspended. The ball neared the goal, looking sure to miss but still looping just enough to hold him mesmerised. At the last possible moment, it dipped, brushing past the inside of the goal post to score.
~|^|~
As Kent had kicked, Lois's assessment had been that the ball was going wide and she'd relaxed a little. Then it had started to swing, zeroing in on the goals like a guided missile. She had leapt to her left in a desperate attempt to divert the shot.
Too late.
Impossibly, the ball had squeezed inside the post.
Her shout of congratulations froze on her lips as she looked at his face.
His expression mirrored her surprise.
But, then …
From the midst of his amazement, a smile slowly unfolded.
A smile.
Tentative. Faltering.
Glorious.
It dissolved the layer of aloofness, giving Lois her first unveiled glimpse of the man who had dropped into her life.
He was beautiful.
On the inside.
And on the outside, too.
