Together horse and rider moving fluidly and naturally. His relaxed and easy horsemanship betrayed him. Farm and country roots, skills received from his adoptive parents, from his grandmother Kent, and particularly from Alfie the farm hand, a kind and affectionate, but equally practical approach; to both the livestock and also the wilder natural world.
Lana watched him; from horseback Clark inspected the light brown herefords; the white faced cows that the Kent's had loosed into their fields, spring was in the air, and the heavily pregnant cows would soon give birth.
He acknowledged her, his hand tipping his wide brimmed hat in an extravagant motion copied from some cowboy feature. She climbed atop the field gate to gain a more equal perspective, as the young Kent guided his dark gelding to her.
“Howdy” he chimed running with the cowboy theme.
“Clark Kent the days of the open range ended in the winter of 1886.
“Thousands of cattle died in the snow that year.; and that's something you'd know if you'd gone back to school this semester.”
Clark nodded. “Grandma told me all about that winter.”
Lana stuck her tongue out at him and jumped down ..
Clark joined her, in a fluid motion his hand touched the top most bar as he vaulted effortlessly from the saddle to earth. The horse skitted, but Clark nonchalantly looped the long reins around the gate.
“Father has been asking after you.” Lana said pretending not to notice his acrobatics.
“I'm sorry but I haven't had the time to visit your folks and you, as much as I'd like, I hope they're well.”
“He's really disappointed in you Clark, he thought you had ambition, that you'd maybe make a doctor.
“Although I always told him you never looked at a page of those medical books of daddy's long enough to read any of them.”
Clark smiled. “I like looking at the pictures.”
“of peoples insides? I do declare Kent, you are the strangest boy.” Lana's voice trailed off uncertainly.
Clark didn't look like the youth who she had spent the last days of the last school year sitting across from her in class.
“Your Father has been working you hard.”
“Not so much, no more than he should; it has to be done.”
“Look at your shoulders Clark, you've really filled out already.”
“My Mom bakes the best cakes and cookies; well mostly everything, she's been feeding me up.
Besides, being outside in the sunshine really agrees with me.”
Lana couldn't argue with him about that, there was already a maturity about Clark that seemed at odds with his years.
“So. You come out this away for any reason?” Clark asked.
“I was taking a walk. A constitutional. My Father heartedly recommends them.
Any way now I've seen you can't I begin to persuade you to come back to school?”
Clark lent against the Gate, and patted the horse.
“The cows are due to calve.”
“Clark, wasn't it a bumper harvest last summer. Surely your dad can get help?”
“It was; but the price was very poor, there was too much grain, no one made much of a profit.
Lana things are bad.”
“Which is a good reason to think about a professional career, if not medicine, what about law? - like your uncle.”
“There is a dark cloud on the horizon.” Clark stated.
Lana looked across lightly misted blue skies; her puzzled face spoke volumes.
Clark frowned – it was like there was something he needed to tell her, wanted to say, but he didn't know how to begin.
Lana reached out and took his hand. Clark let her.
“I've been looking at the land, across these plains.” He explained. “You know they've never been ploughed like this - not like we've be doing.”
“I know Clark, Smallville and lots of towns like us have done really well out it.”
Clark nodded. “Sure while you and I have been growing up these have been real good years, so everyone says - good enough that most folks, including my Pa, went out and bought tractors, and trucks and the like.
“And the harvests have been good, and folks have done good out of them.
“But the soil Lana, some thing's not right - here, Texas, right across the prairies; and the air is dry, we're not getting the rain as we should.”
“I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at Clark. You talk like you've been checking up on the whole of the Great Plains.”
Clark stood up straight and stepped back. A moment passed; and then he smiled.
“Sure Lana most nights I run trans-state across to Texas and Oklahoma, and all before breakfast.” He winked.
She laughed. “Fool!” She said laughing, why don't you take me home so I can say hello to your Mom.”
Clark nodded laughing, they mounted his horse; Clark effortlessly lifting Lana up behind him, and without thinking she wrapped her arms around his waist, inhaling the dusty earthy scent of him all too close, and her heart skipped a beat as they galloped away in the direction of the Kent Farm.
-'S'-
“Lana safely home Clark.” Martha asked her son.
Clark hung his hat on the hooks by the back door. He smiled and nodded. “Safe and sound Mom.”
He put a bundle of magazines on the table. “Dr Lang let me have some more back issues, there's Time, National Geographic and Popular Mechanics; and some others.
“What's for dinner?”
Martha slid the bubbling pot to one side of the stove, and gestured to Clark.
“First a course and sit down and listen to your mother.” She wiped her hands and called Jonathan.
The older man wandered through, the radio hummed merry tunes from the front room. He had a pipe and taking a match the farmer lit the tobacco. Clark watched him, practised deliberate actions, he saw the smoke curl, smelled the pungent burning leaf. He read the signs.
“What have I done wrong?”
“Now son, no call to get defensive. There's nothing wrong in a healthy boy taking an interest in a healthy girl and visa versa.”
“Pa, Mom and I have had this talk, way back, I mean it's not hard for a farm boy to put one and one together and work out where the babies come from.”
“Well Clark it's not about the birds and bees that we need to talk to you about, not exactly any way.” Matha said.
“And we're all too aware that you're more than able to see what nature is all about son.
“Heck you were explaining that to your Aunt Mary when you were two.” Jonathan laughed and tapped his pipe, it was a nervous habit, Clark recognised it.
“Your heart beat is raised Pa. Yours too Ma. What's so serious that it's got you both spooked.”
“Clark you know we told you from the get go that you were special.”
“Sure Pa, just like Samson, Hercules, there's always been exceptional people, really exceptional – people like me.”
“No Clark, not like you, at least I don't think so.” Jonathan ran his hands through his thinning hair.
“But you told me. You said every so often, rarely for sure, maybe only once in a thousand years – someone really strong or fast or both comes along – surely that's me - that's what I am?”
“Clark.” Jonathan began. “I guess all that's true – at least as far as that goes.
“I guess seeing Lana making eyes at you this afternoon reminded us how much you've grown up, you're almost a man already. So there are things we feel we really should tell you.”
“Okay Pa. I'm listening.”
“Son this isn't easy for any of us, the thing is your Mom and I – we found out early on after we got married, that we weren't going to be having any children of our own.”
Clark frowned, his hands made fists.
“We even went to an orphanage to talk about adopting. But then we found you.”
“You found me?”
Jonathan and Martha began to explain how that fateful night had begun, how they'd stopped before a blinding light, how Jor-El and Lara's otherworldly recording had appeared, and how they'd taken their child, their Kal-El.
“They said we should name you; a human name - so I called you Clark, it seemed right that being my maiden name.”
Clark stony faced stared at his Mom.
“A human name? Then what am I? What am I Mom?” His words were full of shock and even a little anger.
“Your my son, my beautiful boy, you're Clark Kent.”
“I was Kal-El of Krypton first.”
“And your Mother was a Clark before she was a Kent. What of it?” His Pa pointed at him with his pipe. “You are a Kent. And don't you ever forget that.”
“I'm an alien!”
“So was your great great Grandfather, him and every soul that came to the new world from the old, before that and since then.”
“But I'm not Human.”
“Better to be humane Clark!” Jonathan exclaimed. “Humans are blood thirsty lot, look at what happened to your Uncle Tom in France, to all those boys out there from all over the world, and you tell me that being human is so damn wonderful!
“You've more goodness in you than any one I've ever met. That's what matters Clark.”
Martha took her sons hand. “Darling look you're handsome, clever, and so talented. I've seen the pictures in the pulps you read, you're not green, you haven't got tentacles or anything like those aliens in the comics have, you're not a monster.
“You're a handsome young man, so handsome the prettiest girl in town is all dewy eyed over you.”
Clark stood up. Angry, uncertain, he glanced down at the cover of the up most magazine in the pile Lana's father had given him, Popular Mechanics 30th anniversary issue. There colourfully illustrated on the magazines front page were the wonders of the modern age; towers of steel concrete and glass, great engines of industry and commerce, they seemed to belong to an alien world, one far far away from small town Kansas. Dominating the cover there was a great colossus with chiselled features towering over lesser men like a greco-roman god of the olden times.
“But I was born Kal-El of Kyrpton. I may look human, but I'm not Mom, - don't you know what that means?
“It means Lana isn't looking dewy eyed at a boy – because I'm not a 'boy'. And really do you think she'd look at me like that if she knew – that I wasn't...?”
“Clark, don't be hard on your mother. That's unfair! You've known from the beginning that you were different. Very different.
“Look at how Gary wet himself when you jumped him out of that tree. You've always known you had to be careful or people might get scared of you.
“So you tell me son - just what has changed – really Clark, what has changed? Do you really love your Mom any less, now that you know she chose to take you in?
“With nature you don't get to choose son, you just have to live with what nature gives you.”
Martha leant across the table. “Jonathan, don't be hard on him, it's a lot for anyone to take in.”
“See Clark your mother, she's a good woman, loved you from the very beginning.
“If you want to be mad, be mad with me; because your Mom had to convince me that we should take you in and call you our own.”
The colour had drained from Clark's face.
“Look son I wasn't sure about adopting a baby, any baby for that matter. So a baby from another world, you see it wasn't easy. So I admit I wasn't sure, not at the very beginning.
“So long story short, we took you over to that Orphanage, the one we'd visited. We left you there, just for one night - and the very next day we came back. Why? Because your Mother convinced me to do the right thing by you.”
Clark looked down at his feet.
His Pa sighed. “You realise that the Orphanage was more than glad to sign you over to us. I don't know what you did while you were there, but I can hazard a guess.” He laughed nervously; then found his voice again.
“Thing is son, I've never regretted deciding to call you ours; once I came around to the idea, and although it wasn't easy raising an exceptional child, I'd do it again. Don't you see Clark, you are our son - you're a Kent.”
Clark closed his eyes. He felt his Mother's arm wrap around him. She was crying.
“I'm sorry Mom.” He said. “I love you both, and you're right Pa we're still the same people we've always been – I understand that who I am, the flesh of me hasn't changed..” He hugged Martha. She felt his pain like only a mother can.
“Clark what's troubling you ?” She asked.
“Sure Son get it off your chest.” His Pa suggested.
Clark sighed, he seem to struggle for a moment to find the words.
“Lots of people look at a dolphin and say what a fine fish it is, because it looks like a fish, it swims like a fish, lives with the fishes in the sea, but science tells us it's not a fish, it's more like a cow or a sheep, it's really what they call a mammal and as far removed from the fishes as people are.
“Don't you see Mom? Pa? That's me. Yesterday I thought I was just a funny fish, today I find out I'm not a fish at all. That's what is different.
“Look I need some air, I'm going outside for a bit,... with your permission Pa.”
Jonathan nodded.
Martha reached out to her son, but it was her husband that took her hand. Clark closed the door behind him.
“Now Martha let him be, he'll be fine, he just needs to digest what we've told him, that's all. He's a good boy, and he'll be just fine. I promise.”
Clark could hear his father's words peter out behind him as he put distance between himself and the farm. Bare feet pounded the earth, his powerful muscles taking him far away, and in due course - a random, weaving course; he found himself back at Smallville, stood outside the Lang House, the town surgery, Lana's home.
The door bell rang. Lana looked up from her book, her Mother continued to sow, glancing up from her needlework Mrs Lang asked her to answer the door. “It might be a medical emergency.” Then looking at the mantle clock. “It's getting late and we're not expecting visitors.”
Lana swung open the commanding door that fronted this one of Smallville's more imposing properties.
“Clark Kent. Twice in one day! You might think you were trying make up for being such a stranger.”
“Sorry I'm calling late, but may I speak with your Father?”
Lana could see that he was dishevelled, his hair windswept and his clothes dusty.
“Papa? Oh Clark, are you all right, are your parents.. are they sick?”
“We're fine thank you Lana, I mean we're no different than before. I just need to speak with your...”
“Clark my boy!” Dr Lang's trademark cigar smoke wafted before him, he stood over Lana.
“So it's you calling. A little late don't you think?”
“Yes Sir, I'm sorry I didn't think this through perhaps; but may I speak with you please?”
“Didn't think? I'd have thought half a dozen miles or so between the Kent spread and town would have been plenty of opportunity to think Clark, but if this is important, I'm sure I can spare you some of my time. Although son I'd have much preferred you called during business hours.”
Lana turned away, and left them, a parting glance was enough to communicate a mixture of annoyance, concern, and confusion.
Dr Lang indicated for Clark to follow him inside and further into his study.
“Now Clark.” Lang pointed to a chair. “Sit my boy, and tell me what it is that brings you here.”
Doctor Lang leant back in his leather chair.
“Doctor, tonight I've learned I'm adopted.”
“I see.
“And this troubles you?”
“Yes I suppose it does.”
“Understandably Clark, and I can see why you feel the need to talk about this, and perhaps why you're not thinking so clearly this evening.
And truthfully I'm glad you felt you could come to me.
“Clark there isn't anything wrong or bad in been adopted. Children become orphans for many reasons, non of them through any fault of their own.
“And son - you should be glad that your parents chose you; that the Kent's in particular chose you. Your Mother and Father are some the best people I have had privilege of knowing.”
“Doctor – it's not that, I love my Pa, my Mom. They are wonderful. It's me I'm... not... one of you.”
Lang laughed.
“I'm sorry Clark, look at you! You're a bright boy, too bright not to be in school.” Lang remarked pointedly. “But tell me what exactly do you think you are?
"Surely you can see that an orphan is person, with all the inalienable rights of any American.
“So you and your parents are not blood kin. Some folk would make an issue of that, I won't pretend otherwise.
But truthfully blood is nothing to do with what family is.”
Land leant forward “Look is your Mother any less a Kent, any less a member of the family, because she is only married to your Father?
Clearly not, yet all they did was swear before God and man to be husband and wife. That's how they became a family – through a solemn promise. A promise made to each other because of love. Adoption is the same. They loved you and promised to keep you.”
“But my blood...”
“Is blood, red stuff in your veins.”
“Is it?” Clark whispered. Then out loud. “Please Sir, do you have a blood testing set?”
Lang frowned. “You mean blood typing test kit. Of course – this is the only clinic for some distance, it is a necessity. It would be impossible to transfuse blood safely otherwise.
“But why would you ask me about blood typing?” Lang leaned back. Clark remained unforthcoming.
The Doctor drew his own conclusion. “I presume you're asking me to test your blood? However I fail to see how that information would be of any help to you.”
Clark swallowed, he bit his lip. “Doctor I realise it's an strange thing to want, but I need to know... something about me, about my blood.”
“Ah!” Lang observed, nodding. “Oddly Clark, now I reflect on this, there is a certain logic in your request. Psychologically I'd say this is an expression of deep seated need to know about your biology.
“I blame myself, letting you read all and sundry; medical journals and the like; but if it helps put your mind to rest, then I see no harm in it.
“Take off your shirt. I'll be back shortly.”
Lang returned with his medical bag, and another separate leather case.
“I'll just use this hypodermic needle to take a sample using this syringe. I've found it to be best if you look away.”
“Odd!” he remarked. Clark felt him try again.
“Very odd.” Lang said.
“Another bad needle.” He explained fitting a third.
“Blast.” He continued, repeating the attempt.
“This must be a faulty batch.” Lang disappeared and returned yet again.
He persevered.
“What th..!” The Doctor said finally. “This is the sixth hypodermic needle I've bent against your skin.”
Clark looked up at him. “Keep trying Doc!”
Lang shook his head in bewilderment. “Now I've heard the Kent's are a thick skinned lot but this is ridiculous.”
“Let me try?” Clark asked
“Please?” He held his hand.
Lang hesitated and then relented. “Sticking yourself is no easy feat. I can't imagine why these needles can't break your skin.”
Clark quickly, imperceptibly nipped the skin of his arm between the hard sharp nails of his fore finger and thumb. His nails were exceptionally hard, he'd tried to bite them only recently, mainly out of curiosity and found it impossible even for him, each remained perfect formed, and just like his hair - neither had grown beyond an apparently naturally neat predetermined length. His nails cut through the outer dermis, and using his exceptional vision Clark nicked a vein in his arm, and with a slight of hand – a speed and grace that a master magician would envy he slipped the hypodermic needle into his vein before his fast healing flesh could close the tiny wound.
“Heavens, I must be more tired than I realised. You did that effortlessly.” Lang observed as he took over the syringe and drew blood from Clark.
“Well it's sure looks red to me, so that means your not royalty I'm afraid.” Lang joked lamely.
Opening the leather case he continued to work,dripping the sample into various small test tubes it contained. Then Lang added the reagent to each sample and observed how the blood reacted.”
Finally he turned back to Clark.
“Well my boy, that is interesting.”
“What?” Clark demanded. “What's wrong with it?”
Lang laughed warmly. “Nothing at all, quite the opposite, seeing how the samples reacted – well from that I can deduce that you're blood type is O, that means you are a Universal Donor. You do know what a Universal Donor is don't you?”
Clark looked dumbstruck.
Lang continued. “It's when..”
Clark still in shock, interrupted. “a person is able to donate to any other person, but they themselves can only receive type O blood.”
“Quite right! I'm glad your days here weren't entirely wasted. Did I ever tell you that you really should consider a career in medicine?”
Clark nodded.
“Well, young Mr Kent, whatever you decide to do with your talents - with blood like yours, I'd say you were born to save people.”
-'S'-
Clark ran with his eyes closed, supernatural senses allowing him to navigate through the thick dusty air that engulfed him. To many it felt like the end of the world. The drought ravaged dry soil, exposed by the plough was stripped by driving winds, whipped into huge black clouds which billowed across the Great Plains. Huge dust storms rolling across the land caking men and beasts, machines and buildings in dirt.
Once the stuff of life - the earth itself was now death, a lingering taste in the mouth, that stung the eyes and coated the lungs.
Clark leapt angrily upwards bursting out into the sky he breathed deeply the clean air, filling his lungs, and for a moment twisting in the wind he absorbed the expanding desolation that men called the dust bowl.
His descent was rapid, not for the first time he span somersaulting to arrest his fall, landfall was hard and solid, back into the brutal darkness.
Home was dirty, dry, and spoiled, gone was the tidy garden, claimed by drought; gone the bright paint obscured by dust; gone was the joy in life.
In it's place was powerlessness.
Clark emerged from maelstrom, his body caked in dust, half naked apart from his torn short britches.
“Boy you look like that Jonny Weissmuller's, cept that your a Tarzan that's been wrestling mud.” Clark laughed. His Pa shook his head, gesturing to the floor.
“And for pity's sake remember your Mom - your mother has enough trouble keeping the muck outside as it is.”
“Sorry Pa, but my clothes can't take the strain, and I'm not wanting to rip them up, and wear them out. Maybe that's why Hercules is painted wearing skins? Maybe he had the same trouble.”
Jonathan laughed. “Good thing your mother is lying down. She'd be mighty disappointed to see that you're cavorting around like a savage.”
“I'm more like the invisible man.” Clark countered. “No one sees me. Especially when the dust storms are blowing.”
“Is it getting any better?”
“No Pa, worse, I'm seeing more death, all the time, first it was the cattle, their belly's full of clay from eating all the dust covered grass, then there is the people. People like Mom, the dust is killing people Pa.”
Jonathan took his pipe. His fingers automatically working the tobacco; striking a match and letting its flame work it's magic.
“Pa, Mom isn't well.”
Jonathan Kent looked at his son, two years of dust and drought had hardened the land, and the young man's face, there was a steely resolve behind the blue eyes that had once sparkled so.”
“She's got a cough son, lot's of people are having bad chests, it's this damn dust.”
“Father.” Clark's voice deepened. “It's more than just a cough, her lungs are inflamed, each time it gets worse, they fill with fluid.”
“Just because you've read Doc Lang's library don't make you a doctor.” Jonathan snapped.
“I see what I see.”
Jonathan smacked his hands on the kitchen table. “What would you have me do.”
“Go east. Go west. Either way – Mom needs clean air.”
“Four generations. Four generations of Kent's have farmed here Clark. I can't just up and leave.”
“What's more important Pa?”
Jonathan shook his head. “You have your mother's single mindedness Clark”
“You calling me names Jonathan Kent?” Martha asked as she crossed the threshold into the kitchen.
“Clark wants us to join the latter days exodus.”
“Clark's here?” Martha coughed; harshly, a graveyard cough Jonathan's mother would have called it.
He looked up. “Must of left Martha, he was a bit messed up, dirty, didn't want you to see him like that, he'll be back once the storm blows over. Once he's been to the lake.”
Clark could hear his Father breaking the damning news to his Mother; that her son thought it was time to leave Smallville. Clark loved the land, but his world had changed. As he had grown, so his world had grown, home was no longer just the Kent Farm, no longer just the small town of his childhood; Clark's home was much bigger. He was able to cross state lines in a night, he'd chased twisters, and leapt above the black clouds of death dealing dirt that damned the prairies to a new kind of hell, the dust bowl.
If there was every a moment when this exceptional young man felt entirely impotent it was in the face of the raging storm, the natural disaster that wind and drought have brought to naked ploughed earth of the once lush grasslands of the Great Plains.
With all his power he was powerless, nature was wrecking her revenge, and he could do nothing to assuage her wrath. Yet he ran into the storm, into the darkness.
Over the last weeks and months, he had run into the night, into the darkness of the black days. Men who had fallen; lay weak, overcome, unable to breath as the drifting dirt enclosed them, yet suddenly they had found themselves back among the living, inexplicably returned to the nearest farm or town; some boldly told far fetched stories of a mythical angel of mercy racing them through the dark skies.
Clark smelled the fire, even through the salt of the dust. He saw the flaming hot patterns dancing through the blackness. Leaping he hurtled through the air, smashing down to ground, his feet ploughed ruts in the dry earth as he scrambled forward into a run, he could see how the house was newly ablaze. While the barn was already lost; this tragedy was all to easily started in these tinder box conditions. Fire sparking into life, with devastating consequences.
Animals ran wildly, the family here had already loosed them from their stalls, saving them from the flames.
Bare seconds past as he tensed always ready to speed away, move on, while at the same time he scanned the landscape – his unique abilities meant he could pierce the dirt filled air, see through the walls of buildings, it was then his plans changed. Clark saw a lone figure upstairs, trapped inside the burning house. Slowing he was able to catch the shouts and screams of the family.
“Grandpa!”
Clark leapt upwards, he punched through the window, glass and wood splintered. Fluidly he rolled upright on to his feet. Smoke was erupting under the bedroom door. An old man turned angrily to face him.
“It's the end of the world!” he growled, he wore a nightshirt, a heavy dressing gown, and slippers.
“Sir, please be calm, let me take you to safety.”
“No! You're the Devil! You're not going to take me to hell!”
Clark considered this, it wasn't surprising. For many it really did feel like Judgement day had come. Outside a dust storm was raging; making day as dark as night, a darkness illuminated here by a raging fire. This was as close to hell on earth as you could imagine.
Simply from this old man's perspective; he had crashed into this madness - a man as dirty as the storm itself. Clark understood all too well the panic and the terror.. No wonder he thinks I'm here to damn him rather than save him.
“Sir, please your family is outside, come with me.”
Clark glanced back, the older man's son - he assumed; had a ladder and was starting to climb. Soon he would reach the smashed window.
The old man shuffled forward, his body was weak, the dust, too much bed rest, Clark's concern for his failing health meant he wasn't looking for the shotgun, not immediately at least.
“Now Sir, please, don't do that. That door is holding back the fire, it's not going to last. I'm not the devil, I'm a man, a God fearing man.”
“That flies through a man's window, brings smoke and fire with him!” The old man coughed, he shakily raised the gun from it's hiding place beneath his gown.
“I'll show you - you demon!”
Clark was aware of two things, the old man's fingers were tightening around the triggers, while in this same moment behind Clark the old man's son was now entering the room.
The Gun exploded, both barrells. Clark could have moved, but doing so would have mean certain death for the innocent man behind him.
He didn't know what a gun could do to him, but he was sure the other guy would fare far worse. So Clark stepped forward to meet the spray of pellets before they spread far and wide.
It was an anticlimax, his tensed body and his frame absorbed the impact, within that same second he was closed the distance between them, taking the gun away from the old man before gently catching him against his shoulder, easily lifting the flailing figure.
Clark moved like the wind, he turned and dived forward taking with him the stunned adult son collecting the second man with his free arm. Leaping forward Clark carried both men clear, out of the house into the void, before alighting to the earth, and letting them both gently to the ground.
Free of them, the rescue complete, Clark did not hesitate, jumping high and clear, he left as quickly as he had arrived, not waiting or wanting to hear the families thanks or give an explanation for his incredible actions; returning to the Kent Farm with huge leaps and bounds.
“Pa, I'm bullet proof.” He said as he closed the door behind.
“Figures.”
Jonathan offered his son a cup of coffee “I see you've found your shirt and pants.” Jonathan observed.
Clark took the steaming mug, thanking his father, he briefly outlined the gunshot and the rescue.
“Had I been wearing a shirt it would have been shredded.” Clark noted.
“Mom is resting again I see.” His eyes scanned his parents room.
Jonathan nodded.
“Clark, your Mom and I have been talking things over. I'm not pretending I'm happy about this, but I'm going to write to my cousins in Maryland. With that big dairy spread they have out there I reckon they'll find room for us, at least until Martha's health improves.
“And while we're gone, well - Alfie is more than able to take care of things, make sure there's something left for us to come back to.”
-'S'-
Alfie drew on the lit cigarette, framed in the red sunset of the dust laden skies, his oversized cap worn at a jaunty angle, a patched coat from an old suit hung over the Corral rail on which he lent. A worn denim waist overalls hung loosely and ended in good heavy boots, one of which was perched on the bottom rail of the fence.
“Evening Mr Kent.”
“It's Clark, Pa is in the house.”
“Like I said, evening Mr Kent.”
“Alfie, it's Clark, just like it's been Clark for nearly ten years.”
The lanky youth that had come to work for the Kents after his father fallen sick and died. Alfie was now a grown man; the boy who had found himself the principle bread winner for his brother and sisters, had now married and had started a family of his own.
Clark lent on the Corral fence next to him.
“Fine and dandy, Clark it is; but Clark I just call things the way I see them.
“And the way I see it is that you are all about grown up – so you better get used to being Mister Kent.”
“Pa has told you?”
“That he's taking Mrs Kent out of all this. Yep. Can't say I'm surprised, wouldn't want any harm to come to Mrs Kent.”
Alfie fixed Clark with a relaxed stare. “So Clark, where are you going?
“See if I was a betting man I'd wager that it won't be Maryland, and I'm sure you won't be staying on here. Not that I wouldn't welcome a man with your talents; I just don't see that happening.”
“I'm not sure what you mean Alfie?”
“Sure, you know, you just thought I didn't have the measure of you.”
Alfie stubbed his butt out, grinding the stub into the earth.
“Been here man and boy, nearly ten years, just like you said, seen you grow, seen things Clark that I reckon you didn't think I'd seen.
“Like the time we were fencing and you drove that nail into the post with you fist. Saw that out of the corner of my eye.
“Then as a boy, when you thought ole' Alfie wasn't watching, you'd lift things a man wouldn't like pick up, as if there was nothing to it.
“Okay - these last few years I've seen less unusual things going on, but I reckon that's on account on you been better at being you.”
Clark let out a whistle and lent with his back to the fence. “Well you've got me - why Alfie didn't you say something before?”
The dark man laughed. “Reckoned it wasn't any of my business, if you Pa and you wanted to pretend there was nothing special about you, then that was your call; and if you weren't talking about it, then it wasn't my place to start.”
“Thanks – I appreciate that Alfie.”
“Wasn't any trouble, besides the Kents are good people; I'm grateful Clark for the opportunity, the trust your Pa and you, are putting my way.”
“Smoke Clark?”
Clark waved a dismissive hand. “Thanks but no. Never found any pleasure in it.”
Alfie shrugged and lit another cigarette.
“So where too? Where in the world will Clark Kent go?”
“Metropolis.”
“The big Smoke. Figures. Told your parents?”
Clark shook his head.
“Reckon they'll know you're going your own way, saw it in your Pa's eyes.”
“He's a good man – my father.”
“True – very true, I sure missed mine; but your Pa, he was good to me, made no odds I was a Negro, he treated me fair. It was like having a piece of my own Pa back again.”
“I guess he kind of adopted you.” Clark observed.
Alfie drew deeply on his smoke. “Yeah guess he did, but Clark you're his boy, time will come and you'll be the Mister Kent. This land will be yours, the fourth generation of Kents in Smallville, that's your inheritance.”
Clark sighed. “I'm adopted too Alfie.”
“Is that right... Kind of wondered why there was only the one of you, no other brothers and sisters. Funny – now a lot of them things make more sense, should have seen that.
“Where's you from Clark, any family out there – any more folk special like you?”
Clark shook his head. “I'm the last of my people.
“There was a... disaster, and my family died, but I was lucky. They got me out, and the short of it is Ma and Pa, they took me in; but there's nothing left of where I came from.”
Alfie exhaled smoke, it curled around him. He took another contemplative toke.
“That's hard, difficult when you don't know your roots. Mine are in Africa, like to see Africa one day.
“You don't know anything about who you are?”
“My birth parents names, that's all really.”
“Maybe you could find out where your folks are buried.”
Clark shook his head “That's the thing there's no bodies Alfie – it was a big explosion, long ways from here; nothing left of anything you see.”
“That's not right Clark – I mean when a man passes on they're should be a marker of who he was. It took me a long time to save enough for my Pa a grave marker; but no way was he going to lay forgotten. If I was you I'd want something to remember them folks by, because whoever you are today, and whoever you become tomorrow, them dead folks – they will always be who you were.”
-'S-'
Clark reflected on his conversation with Alfie, the guy had more common sense and practical logic than many men who had a wall full of academic qualifications, for this reason and his stoic loyalty Clark respected him a great deal.
Now as the night sky filled with stars, Clark found himself looking down at the buried sphere which had delivered him to Earth. His father had shown him where he had hidden the long inactive machine. Jonathan Kent had dug a hole in the earth; and buried the alien device in far corner of the Kent's yard. Ever since Clark had learned of his origins; his birth name – Kal-El; this quiet corner of the farm had taken on a different meaning.
His supernatural vision penetrated the dirt easily but found the sphere – as always - to be impenetrable. Part of him remained curious about the machine, and yet another part afraid, and last of all there was the sense that this was a grave; the tomb of a lost world, of Krypton, of Jor-El of Lara.
Clark's huge leap took him to the corner of Forty Acre Field. There among the trees he recognised the stony outcrop he needed. The heavy chisel he carried made fast work of the hard rock. Clark didn't need a hammer, his hands drove the hardened steel into stone effortlessly, his hand a methodical blur of repetitive motion. Cutting one then a second identical stone slab from the exposed rock-face. Clark used another harder stone still, to polish them, his hands a blur of motion, then after a close inspection he was satisfied; collecting the slabs like huge sheets of card, he ran back to the Kent Farm.
Standing above the tomb of his alien crib, Kal-El remembered Kyrpton. Powerfully he drove the stone slabs into the earth, one next to the other; two identical head stones. Across the horizon the Sun began rise – and a new day dawned.
With his finger he carved Jor-El and then Lara. He stood back, framed in the sun rise, looking at the completed work, he whispered.
“Now I have remembered who I was. Now I must become who I am to be.”
Jonathan looked at the headstones. Clark had confessed how he'd spent his night over breakfast.
“Look like they've been there always son.”
“You don't mind Pa?”
Jonathan knew Clark was concerned for his feelings, for Martha's feelings; he didn't want to offend them.
“I can't say that I do. It's only fitting we remember those who've gone before.”
Jonathan put an arm around his son.
“Clark, we've always told you in due course when you're old enough, when you're ready you'd have to find your way in the world, to use your exceptional abilities for the greater good, for our country; for justice and truth – that's the American way.
“I guess I'm saying we never expected you to be a farmer.”
“Pa, I don't think I'm going to come with you and Mom to Maryland.”
“I know son.
“Don't fret about growing up, like I said, your Mom and I knew this time would come, maybe it's come sooner than we'd expected, but don't think for a moment we'd stand in your way, a man got to do, what a man has go to do.
“Besides we've been thinking about this... for some time now; you've given us reason to think; any way son before you go out into the world...”
“Metropolis I thought Pa.”
“Sure Clark, Okay Metropolis - you should look up your Uncle Nathaniel and Aunt Mary; about time they did something useful.
“Any way – I was saying, before you go to Metropolis your Mom has something that belongs to you.”
Clark a little puzzled followed his Pa into the house.
“Clark is going to Metropolis Martha.”
“From the smallest of towns to the biggest of cities. That's a mighty leap Clark.”
Jonathan laughed. “If any man is able to make mighty leaps it's our boy.”
Martha frowned. “Big place Metropolis, and it's not all shiny and new like the Pictures paint it; or Mary writes it.”
“That's why I'm going Mom.”
Martha frowned. “Could you get me those cookies out of the oven Clark. I have something for you besides those.”
“Metropolis indeed.” Martha muttered.
“And what's going to happen to our bullet proof boy?” Jonathan teased her – leaning in whispering. “Heck Martha he doesn't even need oven gloves, look at him! It's like he's made of steel.”
Martha pulled a cute face and pushed back her hair.
“So Clark. Say a building is on fire, and people are need of help – what then?”
“Why Mom – I'd rescue them.”
“And when your running around a burning building, what happens to your clothes – they'll be burned from off back, and then what?”
“That is a problem.” Clark agreed.
“Exactly!” Jonathan said. “Metropolis isn't Kansas, can't go running around and not expect to be seen.”
Martha pointed at her son. “Clark I'm not having you doing those heroics of yours, heroics that you are bound to do, only to end up running around America's largest and busiest city like a savage.”
“Mom we know that my clothes aren't tough enough; but what else can I do?
“That said, I was thinking about steel. Maybe I should make myself a suit of steel. That might work?”
“Hardly a friendly or even practical outfit.” Martha replied. “Scary I'd say; and why would you want to scare people? Besides we've both been thinking about this problem.”
Martha took a wooden box from the dresser; opening the lid she unpacked from plain paper wrapping a tiny fabric tunic.
Holding it up to the window so Clark could see the bright primary colours in sunlight. The blue and red, a flash of yellow, and a peculiar shield.
“Hope.” He said.
“Pardon Son?” His Father asked.
“The symbol it means hope.” Clark replied. “I don't know why I know it means hope, but it does, I'm certain of it.”
“This is the suit that you were wearing when you came out of the machine.” Martha explained.
“Yeah sure, you told me about that a while back – but I don't get how this baby suit helps?” Clark laughed. “It's tiny. Like a dolls outfit. I mean how did I even fit into that as a baby; unless I was an incredibly small baby... was I... ?
“Nope.” His father replied. “You were on the generous side if anything.”
Martha grabbed the suit and tugged. “It stretches see.”
“Not a lot Mom. Ok maybe enough for a baby...”
“Clark, here take it, you try.”
Clark looked at his Pa, who nodded enthusiastically, taking the suit from his mother, he took hold of the arms and pulled. The alien fabric stretched elastically, it didn't change in colour, just in size, there was some distortion, but Clark was only expanding the fabric in one direction.
“Wow. It's so stretchy, and so thin, and yet so strong.”
Martha nodded.
“I got thinking a while back, about how you'd given up wearing regular clothes when you were leaping around. That bothered me. It was then I remembered how that baby suit had shrunk when we peeled you out of it.
“I guess it was so funny looking to us we just put it away and forgot about it.”
“Your Pa and I were talking about things, you being who you are, and I thought just maybe since that baby suit looked so much like the ones in the recording of your birth parents, that it just might actually be the same; you know like a one size fits all sort of suit.”
Jonathan picked up the story.
“So after your Mom had found the suit again, I tried to stretch it and it did. Then I figured what I needed was more pull; and so that's when I tried it in the bench vice and me tugging on it - hard as I could; and I managed to get it bigger still.
“Then son. Watch!”
Jonathan too out the carving knife, and tried to cut the alien cloth. He couldn't
“Won't burn either, I tried that. It repels water, grease, dirt, everything I threw at it.”
Clark took the suit into his hand. He smiled.
“Okay I better try this on.”
He winked at his Mom and stepped out of the kitchen, moments later he reappeared.
“Oh my word!” Martha gasped.
Clark stood tall, and at his centre – visually – was the symbol of hope. The same glyph Martha had first seen as a random pattern of red shapes on a yellow background edged by red, that Jonathan had described as the stylised 'S'.
This shield dominated the suit, drawing the observers eyes to it's vividness.
“Well the gal's won't be looking at your face so much in that get up.” Jonathan laughed.
The costume was mainly blue. This thin blue fabric covered Clark's athletic frame like a second skin; clinging to his muscled torso, his arms and legs.
Red shorts seemed to sit on top the blue costume, mainly because these where of a different slightly thicker material, and as result where – and probably for the better - less revealing; a yellow belt topped these shorts. The boots were the same shade of resplendent red, and appeared part of the suit, but at the same time distinct, and their leather look material also stretching while remaining uniformly thicker than the rest of the costume.
"This feels great; but you know what I really need?
"A cape."
Clark began to explain. "You see I've been thinking too.
"Sometimes when I leap it's like I need more control, something to help me turn and maybe slow down, you know something a bit like a parachute - and I think I could use a cloak to do that.
"Then as I was pulling this costume on I remembered how Mom said that I was wrapped inside a red blanket too. So it occurred to me that if it's the same sort of indestructible material as this suit, then it might work as a cape."
Martha nodded. "I know exactly where that is."
Returning after a few minutes she passed a brown paper bundle to Clark, unwrapping the red blanket he could instantly tell it was the same fine fabric as the main part of the costume, while being same shade of red as the boots and shorts.
"Pa you said Jor-El wore a cape."
"Sure he did, and Lara, they both did."
Clark held up the alien cloth. There was an all yellow version of the 'S' Shield in the centre.
"I just think this is one too; not a blanket but a cape, they must have used this like a blanket for me, so I guess it was important to them."
Clark flexed and twisted, he threw the red cloak across his shoulders, it fell dropping like a red sail. He held it there for a moment, his fingers pressing against the fabric, and almost imperceptible depressions in both suit and cape seemed to fit together; which they did.
“Yeah, that's just snazzy!” He said dropping his hands, the cape was now held in place by the invisible but pre-existing mounting points.. “I like it, feels right. It adds a touch of class.”
“I guess I won't look like a savage any more.”
“No son, that you do not.” Jonathan agreed. “You look like a hero.”
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