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Attention Grabbing Excerpt
Superman grabbed the bumper of the car, sliding behind the Cadillac for a brief second before snatching the auto's driving wheels clear of the pavement, then he began braking the speeding vehicle, his boots sliding along the road surface, bringing the sedan to an abrupt stop – while pulling the car to himself.
Superman tipped the car up further, shifting his grip he tossed the car over his head and grabbing hold of the spinning prop Superman tore the drive shaft clear. The powerless rear wheels span on steadily slowing.
Balancing the town-car and its seven occupants over his head Superman flips the vehicle over onto its side.
One hand now taking the strain his fingers sink into the body work; with the other free hand Superman tears the doors off the big sedan while shaking the auto. The gangsters fall tumbling to the ground.
Then with a nonchalant toss Superman drives the expensive limousine into the ground. Butch's chrome crumples as the engine smashes into the empty cabin.
( Excerpt from a later Chapter )
Special acknowledgements:
Freeman Dyson – Dyson imagined a uniform solid shell of matter around the star; 'Dyson Sphere' - such a structure would completely alter the emissions of the central star, and would intercept 100 percent of the star's energy output. Dyson speculated that such structures would be the logical consequence of the long-term survival and escalating energy needs of a technological civilization.
Dedicated to - America's Greatest Generation, & especially Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster – fathers of modern mythology.
"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. " Arthur C. Clarke
Prologue:
Ah Gentle reader! I bid you welcome to my tall tale. Is it said the universe is not greater than we imagine, but that is greater than we can imagine, and yet I must begin this story by boldly challenging you to imagine a reality that is more than incredible.
Countless stars together make a Galaxy. Countless Galaxies together make our Universe. Can you count the grains of sand on the beach, can you number the stars in the cosmos?
And yet I task you dear reader with this challenge – let us together imagine what theoretical Physics calls the meta-universe.
For it is science that imagines not just one universe of countless galaxies, containing countless stars, but an infinite number of universes that together make something unimaginably vast – the Multiverse!
These infinitely different universes are sometimes called parallel realities. Realities where time unfolds differently, where unique worlds come into existence; vast universes birthed from chaos, living and dying, time and time again.
Chapter One.
Rao begins.
A bright and brilliant star, born in one such parallel reality. Young Rao burns in the crowded heavens of an already ancient universe.
Aeons pass, life emerges.
Great Rao burns on, now a captive of meta-human industry.
Jor-El watches Krypton.
Krypton is more than a world, it is an artefact. His people; a race of Supermen long ago broke apart the fabric of the planetary bodies that orbited Rao; an entire solar system shattered and pounded into dust. From this chaos the House of El had overseen the construction of Krypton. Am artificial sphere, a machine that contained a sun.
Krypton – a technological marvel, whose interior was bathed in all the vast energies of Rao.
From space – from a distance, only a deep red glow seeped through the relatively thin skin of the sphere, other intelligences came to call Krypton the great Red Star.
Jor-El observes the ancient mega-structure, now a living mausoleum.
He sees through the Red Star and onto Krypton's huge interior surface; millions of times larger than any comparable natural world. Great continental landmasses and mega-oceans teem with all manner of imported life, save one. Gone are the demi-gods who built this world star.
Kryptonians were no longer limited mortal beings.
Jor-El's thoughts instantly crossed the vast expanse of space, watching the contracting and collapsing cosmos, dark matter sucking the ancient stars back to universes centre, collapsing galaxies fall back into a vast black hole and destruction.
Time is relative; and this singular universe, one of countless universes, within the Metaverse was already collapsing even before the vast artifice that was Krypton's construction; dying even as Jor-El's most distant single celled ancestors emerged as life; but time is relative, and even in the twilight age of this universe, there had be time enough for miracles.
Lara! His consciousness reached out for her. His wife, his beloved Lara had begun their first golden age. They had conquered the death. Her mastery of biology had given them many centuries of healthy vibrant life; but even that was not enough.
Accident, chance, disaster, they still ruled in these ancient times. Lara was not satisfied with just extending life; but perfecting it. She and her disciples eventually rewrote even these rules. Their race became stronger, tougher, eventually invulnerable to disaster, calamity and disease.
Science had given them mastery of the stars by capturing the energy of light itself in their very cells, they shrugged off the ancient metal carcasses, the alloy boxes which had limited them, and with their hands holding the tools of their own invention this race of Supermen built themselves a new home, a citadel worthy of gods, Krypton.
Yet even these newly modified, customised, and magnificently powerful beings were yet flesh and blood, they had changed the rules, but the game was still the same. Even Supermen must die.
The House of El. The architect's of Krypton; first among them was Jor-El, who discovered an answer, and then over many millennia mastered the Phantom Zone, using the great engine that was Krypton to control and open up undreamed of possibilities.
Rao's power utilised through super science to transform each one of them, making them gods among the stars, no longer limited by material bodies, they crossed over into the Phantom Zone. Here a single thought could span the cosmos instantly, here time and space were subject to their will; and Krypton made this possible.
Kyrpton was the bridge between the Phantom Zone and normal space. It was the machine that gave their thoughts substance in the real world; taking raw energy and turning into any kind of matter at their wish, the universe was now theirs; and so it this was the greatest and most glorious kryptonian ages began - but the end of the game remained the same, because even Universes die.
Jor-El drew closer to his beloved. “The Council of Krypton has ruled against us – our plan to cross the great void. Our brethren are weary Lara, this universe holds no mysteries; they are resigned to our collective fate.”
“My beloved; when the great bridge between the Phantom Zone and Space time is broken, we will finally die.”
Jor-El embraced his wife. “My love your plans to recreate are mortal forms are incredible but the Council knows how much we have all evolved beyond the limits of a material body; flesh and blood cannot contain our intelligences; such a machine would be a prison to us - they cannot go back.”
“And yet darling there is so much beyond known space and time, there are other universes, young vibrant and emerging, unknown and new.”
Lara the fault is mine. The same technology that made us masters of this universe now traps us here; condemns us to it's fate, and that is my doing, that has been the price of our divinity.
“To begin again, to live and breath, to be meat and bones, would you have me cripple your intellect?
Darling which memories would you edit from your aeons of life – how could you be the same person I have loved for these last millennia when you are reduced to the confines of a single human mind?”
Lara touched his consciousness stirring his memories of the distant mortal past. “Death. Once our people feared it, strove to escape it, and yet is death has become the only unknown – the last mystery; the last great adventure.”
“We all have lived so very long.” Lara replied. “Is it so surprising we are tired – and who knows what will happen when Rao dies, when the bridge between the Phantom Zone and space-time burns, it a seductive question.”
“Perhaps.”
Jor-El returned his gaze to Krypton. “Soon it will be over.”
Lara. Her consciousness now touched his. “Jor-El” she embraced him. It was a kiss. A kiss that lasted a lifetime. She became all and everything to him, their minds had long ago become more than biology, more than technology – they existed in their own conjoined reality – with more substance, more intensity, and more intimacy than mere flesh and blood could dream of. Centuries passed between them – such was the urgency of their plight, there was a scarce few millennia before Krypton died, destroyed – a consequence of the cataclysmic death throws of this ancient universe; only centuries before they and all their kind would cease to exist in the physical world of their birth.
Lara the author of their advanced biology, it was fitting that Lara would come to him to give birth to Kyrpton's future. Together they engaged the great planet engine one last time. In moments their union was given substance, from thought by energy to matter.
We are complete. It was their common thought.
The first child to be conceived in many millennia was born, their child, Krypton's last Son.
“Kal-El”
“We cannot leave Krypton; we cannot escape the fate of this our universe, because we have become so much more than we were, we are Krypton.”
“You Kal-El. You will live. Everything else that is of Krypton will die, but you are unique among us, you alone are able to cross the last great threshold, you will pass from death into life. You will journey through the infinite dimensions and sample countless possibilities; until you find a new world, a home and people as we once were – a family of flesh and blood where you can grow and learn, where you can live and know love.”
“You are Krypton's last and greatest son – in you Krypton will live on.”
The craft sped away, cradled within lay Kal-El's fragile infant consciousness. As a baby his mind was unburdened by the countless memories of an unimaginably long life; instead Kal-El was blessed with the boundless opportunity to live and grow, to remember and learn; to evolve.
Behind him Krypton shattered and burned, further away sped the craft – faster, along a predetermined trajectory taking him to the edge of reality. The universe died around the vessel, but Jor-El's last great invention engaged at this terrible moment.
An incredible Phantomic engine erupted into life punching Kal-El's crib through the barrier between the divergent universes.
Among myriad dimensions and countless variables the craft sought out an improbable outcome; a new younger universe, a universe with life – life that had against all odds had arisen to become humane and human.
Kal-El's inter dimensional ship surfed along cascading realities, a tiny life boat upon a river of divergent possibilities the independently intelligent machine scanned successive universes, individual galaxies therein, searching for Stars with habitable planets, seeking among these a world, any world of flesh and blood, a kindred people.
Countless examples of life were examined and found wanting; all the time seeking sentient beings to compare to the template Lara had determined, each potential candidate measured against a mother's demands, each was found wanting – always just too different, too alien, too incompatible with her vision.
The Craft sped on seeking an ideal, universe after universe.
Lara's program sought out men and women whose features mirrored the mortal bodies she had so long ago transformed and evolved. Her motives were simple, primal, Lara wanted her son to be loved, and know love, to grow and mature as she and her beloved husband Jor-El had lived in that distant age - as the last mortal generation of their people. Lara wanted their son to evolve into his heritage – and that required an unique set of parameters – a peculiar planet, a peculiar people.
He would not need tools, or machines to thrive, a primitive uncivilised world would be immaterial – technological advancement no advantage. Lara had crafted a unique physiology to keep Kal-El safe from any conceivable material harm, but she knew their son would need companionship for his heart and soul. Their child needed a family and a home. His adoptive parents wouldn't be Kyrptonian, but they would be as close as Lara could get.
-'S'-
Martha was crying. Jonathan knew it was his fault. She wanted a child, he couldn't mend that, make that happen. Sure he wasn't a Rockefeller, or a Wayne, he was a hayseed, a farmer, working with own his hands, the earth itself, and he knew there were things even riches couldn't buy.
Martha was a worried woman. Jonathan looked so stern, framed by the night sky, lit only by reflection of their trucks headlights from road surface.
“I'm sorry.” She said. Her tears wetted her cheeks in the darkness, her voice cracked.
“I love you Martha, you've nothing to be sorry about.”
“I'm a barren field Jonathan Kent.”
“My mother had no business saying that.” Jonathan replied. “Even if today was – I mean would have been our Tom's birthday, if he'd lived.” he sighed heavily. “Blast you Tom, you was always a hothead.”
“Tom was a good brother to you Jonathan. He always looked out for you, and did right by people; didn't he tell you to hurry up and ask me to that dance."
Jonathan smiled as he remembered their first date.
“Truth is Pa Kent started Tom dreaming – those stories of his times with Teddy Roosevelt in that Cuban War - and you know it.”
Jonathan frowned, but he didn't deny Matha's observation.
“He just shouldn't have gone to fight in that damn war. Europe's always been nothing but trouble.”
“And you should have married a proper country girl, not me, not one of the Clark girls, with those fancy ideas, fancy city ways and all that pointless education.”
Martha cried quietly some more.
Jonathan rested his hand on the selector, maybe the vibration wasn't any worse, maybe it was his imagination.
“I would marry you again, and twice over, knowing all I know now, I wouldn't hesitate for a moment Martha, not one second.” He said.
Jonathan squinted.
“Boy there's some jalopy with sooped up headlights coming this away - blast I can hardly see.” He held up his hand and peered at the blinding light ahead. Braking Kent brought the Ford Model T flat-bed to a slow but inevitable stop, as he drew closer he realised that brilliance ahead wasn't an auto, or any other kind of vehicle he recognised, and if it had been moving, it wasn't any more.
The Ford drew to a halt, a yard or so ahead the Kents could see a bright luminescent globe, it's brilliance appeared to be waning, it blocked their path, straddling the middle of the road.
Jonathan opened the truck door and grabbed his pistol from beneath the seat, stepping out onto the pavement.
“Get back Matha!”
The globe hovered a foot or so above the road, now no brighter than the trucks lights, it seemed to shimmer like water – primarily a metallic blue, a swash of red top and bottom and bright yellow band girded the globes circumference.
Martha stood beside the pickup. “ Is it a balloon?” she asked.
“Perhaps. It sure floats like a balloon.” Her husband answered.
Martha ever independently minded ignored his fussing and joined him. “do you think it's a military balloon – maybe from McConnell?”
Jonathan looked at the globe shaped object. “I don't know, maybe, it's just hovering – no sign of how it's doing that, no sound, or anything; but the body of it looks metallic. it's strange – very strange.”
A crest appeared on the surface of the alien craft. A shield; a single bold motif in red and yellow faced them, it appeared to Martha to be a random pattern of red shapes on a yellow background edged by red.
“what with the S?” Jonathan asked.
Martha looked again, yes she thought, the shield could indeed be a highly stylised S.
As she leant forward the craft changed shape, something akin to canopy retracted.
Two figures appeared shimmering into existence before the sphere.
The Kent's gasped.
Two spoke in unison.
“Greetings – We are Jor-El and Lara. We lived long ago on a distant planet called Kyrpton.” Incredibly blue on blue eyes looked outwards, not directly at but past and beyond the Kents. He had short masculine black hair, her hair cascaded across her shoulders black like ebony.
Glowing and other worldly, this man and woman held each other in a comfortable side by side embrace, they hung in the air, floating ethereal, not quite tangible, unreal.
Both dressed in blue, long red cloaks fell to the floor around their booted feet, both wore the same stylised shield on their chests. He had red belted trunks, she a long pleated skirt, both wore leggings.
“This is a letter from us, we are sorry our words must appear strange to your ears; but our words were spoken long long ago in a different language to yours. This - the machine you see today – is making our Kyrptonian words like your words so you can understand this our last recording.”
“You're not real?” Martha gasped. The aliens spoke English well enough, but it did seem imperfect; translated.
Jonathan's pistol was pointed at the beings, and the machine behind them.
Lara spoke.
“We are long dead, this is a recording, a memory of who we were.”
Jor-El in turn said.
“We are projections like your moving pictures.”
“Yet you can answer questions, no movie I've heard of can do that?” Jonathan demanded.
Jor-El replied. “We made many many recordings, and placed them inside this machine. This machine is able to pick and choose from our many words and answer you.
“Your weapons can not harm us – and we mean you no harm.”
Jonathan did not look convinced by the strange apparitions assurances.
“As a mother I have made a letter to you.” Lara began.
“This is our son, he is the last survivor of our people, we died when our world died, but we were able to save our baby. We sent him into outer space – and made this machine to find good people – a people like us - who would care for him.”
In Lara's arms a child emerged from beneath her cloak; a newborn yet clothed in a suit not unlike his fathers.
“Please will you take our child.” Jor-El asked.
“Please as a dead mother's last request, take care of our boy.”
There words seem to convey real emotion – human desperation.
Martha stepped closer, her maternal instinct not only strong, but driven by pain and loss, by longing and heartfelt compassion for an alien woman's plight.
Even Jonathan seeing the babe kicking in his mothers outstretched hands, was moved to lower and pocket the pistol.
“Martha.” he gasped. “Are you sure?” recognising the intent in his wife's actions.
“Jonathan – what else would you have me do?” She answered as her hands reached out, passing through the insubstantial image that was Lara and taking hold of the substantial form of the living child.
She drew him close to her, he was wrapped in a brilliant red blanket, she pulled back its folds; his hands jerked happily, and his blue eyes twinkled with life and joy.
“His name is Kal” Jor-El stated. “He is of the Great House of El, the Great Architects of Kyrpton.”
“But you must give him a new name, a name from your people, a suitable name for a man of your world.” Lara asked.
“Yes. Of course.” Martha replied.
“Please take good care of our son.” The Aliens asked together. “Raise him to be good man; all we ask is that you remember us, so in time our son can remember the people of his birth.”
The figures twinkled and vanished. Their last wish apparently completed. The globe hung in darkness, it's unearthly energy apparently exhausted, it sank to road, where it listed silently.
Jonathan looked at Martha and at the baby cradled in his wife's arms, both lit by the headlights of the truck. The child was so small, delicate and fragile, with bright piercing blue eyes.
The baby seemed happy.
But Martha was happy, he could see it - she was smiling – really smiling, for the first time in such a long time a broad happy smile.
After a long moment he said. “That's sure the strangest romper suit I've ever seen.”
Jonathan threw the tarpaulin over the alien craft, having rolled the sphere onto the back of the flat bed, it wasn't sure how much it weighed, it had been light enough for him to push up the makeshift ramp made from a couple of planks that he carried around for that very purpose. He was in two minds – part of him wanted to forget the otherworldly encounter completely to turn and just leave the craft and those memories behind, but common sense told him that it would be better if he kept matters under his own control.
Climbing into the truck he said. “Lets go home., it's going to be dawn before long, and we're both tired.
“And I think this little mite is hungry.” Martha replied. “I've some Infant Formula back in the house that Mary left when she stayed with us last.”
He looked at her and the newborn. Realising that the events of this night really didn't make any sense to him.
“We can worry about everything else tomorrow.” She said.
Jonathan nodded. Martha was right, wasn't she always? As he drove away the transmission whined; but all he could think about was the baby in Martha's arms.
-'S'-
“Clark, slow down!”
“I'm sorry Grandma, I just like to go fast, I didn't mean to upset you.”
Grandma Kent steadied herself, she looked flustered, before making her way across to the chicken coop, the scraps from dinner in a bucket. Clark ran around pretending he was an aeroplane, arms extended, chuntering like a engine under load.
“Not even two – and already walking the walk and talking the talk, are you sure he's not older – he has to be older right?”
“Hush Mary, don't be silly – Clark is just a clever boy.”
Martha's older sister Mary wasn't convinced. Ice tea in hand she walked out on to the Farmhouse's Verandah.
“Martha look at him go!” She called to her sister. “I do declare I've never seen a two year old sprint with such balance. Where did you find him again?”
Martha stared her sister down.
“I know. No loose talk around Clark.” The older woman said dryly. “I don't know how you could stay here for all that time and not see a soul.”
“I had a difficult pregnancy.” Martha replied. “A few months on my back. Didn't want to take any risks.”
Mary said nothing, a knowing look passed between them.
“Yes Aunt Mary, where did I come from?”
“Clark!” The child had appeared without warning as if by magic.
“Clark can hear a pin drop, and he never forgets.” Martha laughed - her sister recognised the implied rebuke.
“Babies come from a mommy's tummy Clark.”
“oh like the calves?”
“Yes Clark, just like the Calves.”
The precocious child seemed happy with that answer and Clark barrelled off towards the barn; where Jonathan was entertaining Mary's son - his older cousin Gary.
Mary chastened, waited until the boy ducked between the double doors and out of sight.
“I guess growing up on a farm makes a big difference.”
“Sure it's a wonderful place to raise a child. All this space, all this fresh air – it's perfect.”
“Darling, I don't mean to be critical, but isn't Clark a bit young to be seeing the cows give birth?”
Martha passed Jonathan a cold drink.
“Thanks. You know our boy is as strong as Gary, if not stronger, had them both helping me in the barn, and Gary's more than twice Clark's age, not that you'd know.”
“Mary gave me evils today. Clark mentioned where the calves come from.”
“You didn't tell her...”
Jonathan looked around for his sister-in-law. Martha gestured in the direction of the front room, where the wireless was blaring out the latest Jazz tune.
“Yeah... sure... I said Clark told us there was little cows in the fat cows tummy's, and when we asked how he knew this, Clark explained he had a look inside to see why they were so fat, and he saw the little cows in there...” Martha smile and poked her husband mischievously.
“No Jonathan, I just bit my lip and told her, hey it's the country, things are more real here.”
Jonathan laughed loudly.
“shhh she'll hear you!” Martha kissed him.
“I'm glad you are persuasive woman Martha Kent – Clark is a God-send, and a genius and an athlete in the making.”
Jonathan took his wife in his arms, whispering to her gently “I love you Martha Kent. I love Clark, I love my family.”
Upstairs, on the other side of the rambling farmhouse through walls and ceilings, Clark lay in his bed. “I love you too daddy.” He whispered.
-'S'-
“Mom, I want to go to school, Pete says it's the best fun.”
“Clark, I'm more than capable of teaching you here.”
“But Mom, I want to!”
Martha dried her hands and left the sink. She poured a cup of coffee from the stove, and a glass of milk for Clark followed.
Clark sat down at the kitchen table, the yellow check tablecloth contrasted with the green plate littered with home made cookies.
“Clark do you remember the last time Aunt Mary stayed over with Gary?”
“Sure.” he took a cookie. “I remember.”
“You were four years old, and Gary so wanted to be able to beat you at something, that he climbed that tree. The big one in the forty acre field.”
“I tried to let him win lots of times.” Clark replied. “Besides that was years ago, I'm seven now, and Pete he's been to school for ages already, and I'll be good, I'll come last in everything!”
“But Gary became frightened, he was too high and scared and stuck up that tree, so you climbed up and then grabbed hold of him and just jumped down.”
“He said I hurt him, but I never did!” Clark protested. “he'd be there now if I hadn't helped him.”
“Clark Kent! That is an untruth, your Pa would have taken a ladder down there and brought him down – and you know it.”
Clark looked sheepish.
“Aunt Mary never forgave you for scaring Gary. Thank Goodness she didn't believe a word Gary said about it. Although if you're Pa hadn't insisted on taking Gary over to Doc Lang with his talk of a concussion she'd have tanned his behind for lying. Problem being son we know he wasn't; but we couldn't say so.”
“Instead Aunt Mary said I was a wicked boy persuading him to go climbing, when it was him!”
“Clark you're special. You know that. People they just don't understand, they get you wrong; it's not their fault, it's just you are different that's all.”
“So I can't go to school." Clark sulked. "Pete say's I'm missing out.”
Jonathan Kent's arrival through the front door was marked by the burly farmer's familiar cry of honey I'm home. His green 'town' suit confirming he'd just returned from a ride into Smallville. Settling down in his favourite chair he gestured to his sullen boy to come over. Martha poured him a mug of coffee. Clark offered his Pa one of his cookies, and told him about Pete and schooling.
“Sounds more like Mr's Ross talking to me. These are sweet darling.” Jonathan commented on the cookie he had just bitten into.
“That's because I baked them for Clark. They're mainly sugar.” Martha answered as she handed him his hot drink.
Jonathan passed the half eaten cookie to Clark.
“But just maybe the boy is right Martha.”
His wife frowned and sat down. “Jonathan! I'm far better qualified to teach Clark than that Prendergast woman whose teaching the younger children up at the school - and you know it.”
“And I wouldn't expect you to stop. But school is more than book knowledge and doing math. The boy needs to experience real life, and see how people work, and don't work together."
Clark smiled believing he had his father on side, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants.
"Now listen to me, Clark!" Jonathan cautioned. "This great strength of yours - you've got to hide it from people or they'll be scared of you!
"Being different -even good different as you are, well that frightens some people, most folk can't help being that way, it's just the way they are."
"Does that mean I can never be myself?"
Martha shook her head. "Clark right now you're still a child, but when you are man, you'll be older and wise and when the proper time comes, you must use your great strength to assist humanity. That's who you are."
"OK Mom I promise I will. Does this mean I can go to school?" Clark asked.
Martha stood up, she rested a hand on her sons shoulder. “Well Clark, let's just see about that. Let your Pa and I think about this some more.” As she turned towards the Kitchen she said. "And Jonathan we'll have talk about this later."
Jonathan looked at Clark and winked. “I'm sure we will darling, I'm sure we will.”
“Clark Kent.” The balding man looked over his glasses as the Kent boy, he sat behind an imposing desk, a plaque read Principle. G. Edwards. Smallville School
“Miss Prendergast has told me that you made Brad Riley cry, some kind of fight.”
“Riley's hand is all swollen Mr Edwards.”
“Thank you Miss Prendergast. You see Kent, I'm not surprised that young mister Riley should have been involved in some fisticuffs, in fact I'm quite tired of seeing him in this office for similar shenanigans.
“What troubles me is a new boy not yet a week into a new semester should find himself in this office for making a ruffian like Riley cry.
“You see Kent that in my book means you must be a good deal worse than he?
“Do you understand boy?”
“I did not hit him Sir.”
“How is it that his hand is so badly bruised – did you stamp on him, what did you do eh?”
“He hit me once, and like the Good Book says sir, I turned the other cheek so he could hit that one.
“I guess when I didn't complain the first time, he just got all the madder and hit me harder the second time and hurt himself.”
“Kent. You are telling me nearly broke his hand on your face? I might be inclined to believe such a story if you had a bust lip, or even a bruise! Come boy I'm no fool.”
Clark looked at Mr Edwards. He could hear his Pa's advice in his mind.
“Perhaps he hit something else.. eh Kent?
“Something hard? Like the wall? Was that it Kent. Did you move out of the way?”
Clark considered this.
“Yes sir, he hit something hard, hard like the wall I guess.”
Edwards beamed.
“See Miss Pendergast, a simple explanation, Kent has the makings of a pugilist, dodging a punch you see... that said boy, no more fighting, or I'll have to beat you – and that Riley boy is enough trouble.”
“Yes Sir, Mr Edwards.”
-'S'-
“Clark you can carry my books if you like.”
“Thank you Lana.” Clark replied. “Are they too heavy for you?”
Lana made a face. Clark looked on nonplussed; he felt he was missing something here.
“You were brave, Brad is nasty, a bully.”
“He shouldn't have been pulling your pigtails. My Mom told me that, no tugging girls hair.”
“Clark?
“Why didn't you hit Brad back I mean. It was brave just standing there, and funny when Brad started to holler like a big ole' baby – but you should have punched his nose.”
“Like I told Mr Edwards – the Good Book says you should turn the other cheek.”
Lana looked serious for a moment. She couldn't argue with that.
“Don't see you at Sunday School.”
“My Mom goes to Church regular, but Pa not so much – he doesn't hold with churches, he says creation is good enough place to say your prayers, besides I've read the bible... “
“You fibber - the whole thing! If you had - you'd know bearing false witness, that's lies Clark Kent – are wrong,”
Clark frowned.
“Yes - ok, you're right, I haven't once read the whole bible through.” He said, hoping Lana wouldn't pick up on the distinction.
“Just like Dickens and Shakespeare.” He added smiling.
Lana laughed.
“My daddy is the doctor silly – I know about them, old English writers, we have those books and a lot more too.
“Maybe you'd like to come around and see daddy's library – lots of books.
“It's funny you liking books.”
“Clark!” Pete Ross shouted dragging him away as he ran past.
“Another time Lana.” Clark called out.
Lana nodded and waved, she looked mad though. Clark returned a puzzled stare. Girls were different, they didn't pee standing up on account of not having the right equipment.
“Clark.” Pete said earnestly. “You got to be careful around girls, they have germs and you end up a sissy and playing with dolls.
“Let's go and play Cowboys and Indians!”
“Cowboys and Outlaws.” Suggested Clark.
“Okay Clark, no shooting the Indians, just the bad guys.”
The two boys tore off into the distance making guns with their hands and kepow noises with their mouths.
-'S'-
Clark left the Ross house.
He was excited Pete had let him have a new book 'A beginners guide to magic - fully illustrated'. The cover boldly promised to instruct in easy to follow lessons all manner of tricks including; mesmerism, ventriloquism and slight of hand illusions; but his friend had found the lessons anything but easy - and quickly losing interest Pete had passed the self instruction manual to Clark.
The young Kent boy hustled along; jogging warily along the dirt track that led out towards the Kent spread. Once Clark felt he was far enough away from Smallville, he stopped to remove his socks and shoes, tucking one inside the other, and then under his arm along with his school books, and Pete's Magic manual.
Clark now barefoot felt free to run; an athlete could cover a mile in around 250 seconds, Clark at seven years old was comfortable cruising at a steady 30 miles per hour. His shoes were not.
Coming upon the Kent land, Clark paused by the corner of the Forty Acre field where there stood a familiar group of trees, among them the Oak Gary had infamously climbed. Clark on a whim sought out a broken stump, the legacy of a past storm.
In his mind the stump was Brad Riley; it was about his height and then some.
Clark's hand made a fist that connected with the wood, his half hearted first strike was followed more forcefully by his other hand.
He recalled his Pop teaching Alfie Jones how to throw a punch. That summer Alfie had started working most days on the Kent farm. Jonathan had seen him come in one morning with a bruised face, Pop had declared that the boy needed to know how to defend himself.
Alfie's kin had come to America from Africa as slaves, and even though he was an American just like Clark, there were people who didn't see it that way.
His Mom said there were bad people in the world; people like Brad Riley, Clark decided.
Clark leant into the punch; put your back into it his dad had said to Alfie.
His fists drummed on the stump, the dry bark fell away, wood splintered. Clark struck harder, exhilarated..
His hands began to ache, the dull pain was a unusual sensation, and finding his anger subsiding Clark stopped pummelling. His fists had made a random series of impressive dents in the hardwood stump; and the skin of his knuckles, although red and inflamed remained unbroken.
Turning Clark sprinted home faster than a speeding Ford Model T.
-'S'-
Jonathan folded the paper under his arm, two years on from Black Thursday, and things were going from bad to worse.
Clark was playing ball, with himself. He'd throw the ball into the air, run to the bat pick it up and hit the ball up again, and then run and catch the self same ball once again.
He took the coffee from Martha.
“I'm worried Jonathan.”
“We're going to be just fine. I'm just glad I listened to you, cashing in those shares your daddy gave you, to pay for getting the electricity brought to the farm, cost the earth. Today those share's wouldn't buy spit.”
Clark was getting quicker, Jonathan could see it, year on year, his throws and strikes propelled the ball along increasingly longer and more direct course, he was making the task harder for himself. He was both a blur, and a cloud of dust.
Martha threw an arm around his waist. “It's not the farm that worries me, we're not going to starve, but how can we afford to keep paying Alfie Jones? And if he's not working how does he feed his family?”
“Same way we'll eat. Alfie will work for the dollar I can afford to pay, and he'll just have to take the balance in kind, milk, meat, we'll grow more than we need here, I reckon that's the best way.”
“He'll do that?”
“His idea Martha. Ever body knows things is bad.”
“I'll quit school.” Clark said; his sudden appearance surprised neither adult.
Jonathan looked into his coffee cup. “You reckon?” Deep in thought he as looked at his sons dust streaked face. “Are you all finished playing ball son? In a hurry to grow up?
“Good to see you breathing heavy.” He added as an afterthought.
Clark wiped his brow. “A man should sweat shouldn't he Pop, it's not healthy otherwise?”
Martha lent over the verandahs wooden rail, and ruffled her sons hair. “Men perspire, horses sweat.”
“I'm more use here.” Clark waved a hand across the farm from House and garden to the barn and the milking shed.
“Thought you liked School?” Jonathan asked.
“It's Okay Pop, nothing I'll miss that much; don't want to play act at holding back no more, it's not getting any easier to be honest.”
Martha frowned. “What do you mean darling?”
“I'm changing Mom, and it isn't just those kind of changes either.”
