Chapter 3
Jonathan wasn't aware he'd stumbled over to his son, nor was he cognizant of falling to his knees at his side. His focus was complete absorbed by the slice of meteor protruding from Clark's leg. He reached his fingers out, tentatively touching the tip but pulled back when Clark moaned.
"Clark . . . " Jonathan swallowed, unsure of what to say. "I...there's . . . there's a piece of the meteor rock impaled in your leg. I think it's what's making you so sick. I think . . . I need to cut away the pant leg to see it better but I . . . I think it's deep." His eyes left the disturbing sight of Clark's leg and focused on his son's face. Clark's eyes were wide with pain and an emotion Jonathan had never seen there before - fear.
Clark considered what his father had told him. He'd encountered the rocks before yes, but to have one in his body! That had to be what made him so sick. That had to be what was different. But it hurt so much when his father just touched the thing, to have to endure having the pants cut away around it . . . Clark didn't know if he could take any more pain. It hurt so much! Clark's eyes squeezed shut under his father's scrutiny. He didn't want his dad to see him weak, see him afraid. Still, Clark Kent was in reality, a young man, a boy despite his super strength, and he could no more stop the tears that leaked from under his lids than he could stop the agony he was feeling.
Jonathan saw the glistening drops tracking through the dirt on Clark's face. His heart broke as he watched him fight for control. "Clark," he whispered hoarsely as he gathered this child of his into his arms. One weak arm circled his waist as he held his boy close and rocked him gently.
"I'm afraid." The sound was barely a whisper but Jonathan heard it as clearly as if Clark had shouted.
"I know," he whispered back.
Finally Clark stiffened slightly and raised a shaking hand to wipe his eyes. "Okay, Dad. I'm . . . I'm ready."
"You're sure about this, son?" It was then that Clark realized that his dad was as scared as he was. Oddly, that made it better somehow. It was easier knowing that he wasn't alone in his fear.
He managed a weak smile for his father. "No," he teased, "but do it anyway."
Jonathan grinned back at him and they both relaxed a bit. "Okay."
The elder Kent reached into his pants and pulled out his knife. His mouth turned up at the sudden memory the knife provoked.
****
"What's in my hand?"
"Your knife."
"Great! You saw through my hand!"
"No, Dad. You always carry your knife in that pocket."
*****
"Dad?"
Clark's questioning tone penetrated the memory and it faded in the light of what needed to be done. "It's nothing. I was just thinking. Are you ready?" Clark nodded and Jonathan could see him steeling himself against the pain that was sure to come.
Slowly, he sawed through the blood soaked denim, avoiding the actual area around the meteor shard as long as he possibly could. When the leg below the epicenter of the wound was free of cloth, he took a deep breath and started cutting upward.
Up to this point, Clark had managed to clench his teeth and control the pain. But now that the shard was being jostled with every movement of his father's blade, it became harder and harder to bite back his cries. Finally, as the cloth around the very stone itself was being cut away, Clark gave voice to his pain.
Jonathan Kent did his best to ignore the sounds coming from his son. With a stoicism borne of necessity he kept at it, not realizing that the louder Clark yelled the harder he pulled at the unyielding fabric in an effort to end the torment as quickly as possible. At last, the final piece of cloth pulled free and the wound was exposed to his gaze.
The shard was knife-shaped. Four inches showed above the entry point and Jonathan guessed that it was three inches wide at the top. The area around the point of penetration was black. Fresh blood from Jonathan's work streaked across it, making it look like some gruesome demonic portrait. He touched it again, testing how it moved. While there was some movement close to the surface, the base of the stone was unyielding, leading Jonathan to suspect that it was imbedded deep in Clark's femur. For a man who rarely swore, it was just too much. *Shit* he thought. *Shit. Shit. Shit.* He rested his head on his fist and stared at the shard. The decision was obvious. He just didn't want to make it.
"Dad . . . ," Clark's voice was barely audible, " . . . have to . . . pull it out."
Jonathan shook his head, his eyes never leaving the ugly wound. "Clark. I don't know . . . "
"You have to . . . "
"You're weak, Clark. I'm afraid of what it might do to you."
"Dad . . . you have to . . . pull it out . . . it's . . . "
"It's too risky, Clark."
"Dad . . . you have to . . . listen. Please . . . it's . . . killing me."
Something in the tone of Clark's voice finally registered. Jonathan's head snapped up and he looked at his son. Clark was white with pain and fatigue. His breath came in short gasps as he wrestled with the gargantuan effort of breathing. A shaking hand came to rest across one of Jonathan's and it was then that he saw the distended, green-tinged veins. "My God," he breathed as he took in the evidence of the poison that coursed through Clark's body.
"Dad . . . not much . . . time . . . please."
"Clark . . . "
Clark didn't answer. He was exhausted and his voice failed him. His pain filled eyes spoke for him. Jonathan closed his own eyes, blocking out the sight. After a long moment, he drew a deep, hitching breath nodded. "Okay."
Clark's eyes closed in relief and he squeezed his father's hand with what little strength he had. His father squeezed back, then released him. He reached a shaking hand toward the shard then withdrew it and flexed it a few times. When he'd regained control, he reached out again. His fingers brushed the edges of the meteor fragment and closed around it.
"I . . . love you . . . Dad."
The tears he'd been holding back began to fall from Jonathan Kent's eyes. "I love you too, son. So very, very much." Then his hand fisted around the rock and he pulled.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Martha Kent shot straight up in the hammock yelling her son's name, his scream still ringing in her head. One hand clawed at her chest while she used the other to push herself around so her legs hung off the edge. "Oh my God," she panted. "Oh my God ohmyGod ohmyGod."
Slowly she got her frantic breathing under control and examined the nightmare that ripped her awake. Even with her eyes open and her garden blooming around her she could see it. The dark wet walls stretching upward. The bright summer sky gleaming over her head. She could feel the pain in her thigh, feel the sides of the sharp stone scraping against tortured nerve endings as it was pulled free, feel the edges of the small triangle embedded deep in the bone as it pressed against the maimed tissue surrounding it.
"This isn't real," she kept telling herself as she absently rubbed her thigh."This isn't happening." But she knew with a mother's surety it was real, it was happening. Her son was in trouble and she had to help him. "Think, Martha!" she cried. "Think!" With visible effort, she calmed herself. "Where are Clark and Jonathan today?" she asked herself, aloud. *Haying in the south pasture.*
Martha flew from the hammock into the house. She upended her purse on the kitchen table and searched through the contents for the keys to the pick-up before she remembered that they'd had to use it today when Jonathan couldn't get the old farm truck to start. A growl of pure frustration ground out of her throat. She had to get to them, had to get to Clark. Even if she was proved to be wrong, she'd rather face the laughter of her men than ignore the dread that coursed through her soul.
"Think, Martha," she told herself again. "There has to be another way to get to that pasture. There has to be." Her eyes roamed the room looking for anything that might trigger an idea. Something shiny glinted in the late afternoon sun that poured through the kitchen windows. She squinted at the light and moved closer to the beckoning glimmer. Hanging on a hook by the door, waving in the gentle breeze that was wafting through the open door, were the keys to Jonathan's motorcycle.
