As Martha came into the house, she saw the small pile--a red shirt, jeans, tiny boxers, socks--but she didn't see their owner anywhere around. "The Smallville Stripper strikes again," she muttered, listening for the pounding footsteps that might indicate her son's currently very naked whereabouts.
The next sight, innocuous enough to an ordinary observer, sent a chill through her blood. A mug with cow spots. At toddler height on a low table. Empty, except for a thin brown ring at the very bottom. "Jonathan's coffee. He got Jonathan's coffee."
***
Jonathan already knew this. At least, they'd succeeded in making sure that Clark knew not to run at full speed anywhere except on the farm, and he could occasionally make out a moving streak along the perimeter and hear an excited, "Whee!"
His life had shrunk to two small wishes: that Clark would be decaffeinated by the time that Martha got home and that nobody notice, except for the cows, who already had, and judging from their reactions, had never had a toddler play leapfrog over them before.
Then he heard Martha calling, "Clark!"
***
"I didn't even realize he had it until he'd already finished it!"
Martha could believe it all too well. Clark was good about obeying rules and fortunately, didn't hunt for loopholes the way that Pete did, but he had a talent, no, make that a genius, for ending up in situations where there weren't any rules. He'd never shown any interest in coffee before and so, rather than create forbidden fruit, they'd never told him not to drink it. But then Jonathan had left a full mug on the table and next thing he knew, Clark had reached for it, carried it into the living room, and gulped it down.
"I've counted about thirty laps," she commented, deciding not to push the guilt, at least not until some occasion when she might need to.
"I stopped counting before you came back. Around 200." He shook his head.
She and Jonathan had sat up late one night, trying to develop a clear sense of where the boundaries of exploiting Clark's abilities were, making sure that he knew to use them appropriately. Given his nature, it was beautifully clear, once they saw it: Have him do the normal chores any farm boy would do and his own instincts to help would lead him to offer to do anything else he felt was within his capabilities.
She wondered if, once he really understood what the windmill was and what it did, he'd offer to drink a cup of coffee and hitch himself to it. Ethically, she didn't like the idea one bit--it felt too much like using him, even if he did offer--but that couldn't keep her from snickering at the reaction of the local utilities department when they saw that instead of paying about two dollars a month for the extra energy the Kent farm added to the grid, they had to pay hundreds or thousands since all of a sudden, it was providing enough power for all Smallville. Maybe for all Metropolis.
"Fifty-two. I think he's slowing down."
***
After another half-hour, it was apparent that Clark was slowing down. Still going too quickly to hear them, she suspected, but nonetheless, slowing down.
Forty-five minutes after that, she tried calling to him, but the wind he was creating still must have been blowing too fast.
She wanted a cup of coffee herself--just watching him was exhausting.
***
"Clark!" By mid-afternoon, his path had actually worn a significant trench around the farm and as he slowed, they could occasionally see him a bit more clearly. Jonathan wasn't sure he wanted to; it was disconcerting to see what looked like a disembodied head running around the farm at warp speed.
He'd finally slowed down enough to hear them and leaped from the trench to come over to them.
Clark hadn't quite mastered the art of slowing down or stopping from a fast run, and often stumbled over his own feet or wasn't able to coordinate them, sending him into a fall that would have seriously injured any other child, but most of the time, just made him giggle, except when he was in a mood to be frustrated.
Coffee, having finally watched enough baseball on television, or perhaps a growing inborn understanding of his body must have given him a new idea. About fifty feet away, he jumped into the air, folded himself in a v-shape with his legs up, and landed on his bottom, skidding to a halt right at their feet.
Jonathan couldn't resist it. "Safe!" He shouted, spreading his arms wide.
The next sight, innocuous enough to an ordinary observer, sent a chill through her blood. A mug with cow spots. At toddler height on a low table. Empty, except for a thin brown ring at the very bottom. "Jonathan's coffee. He got Jonathan's coffee."
***
Jonathan already knew this. At least, they'd succeeded in making sure that Clark knew not to run at full speed anywhere except on the farm, and he could occasionally make out a moving streak along the perimeter and hear an excited, "Whee!"
His life had shrunk to two small wishes: that Clark would be decaffeinated by the time that Martha got home and that nobody notice, except for the cows, who already had, and judging from their reactions, had never had a toddler play leapfrog over them before.
Then he heard Martha calling, "Clark!"
***
"I didn't even realize he had it until he'd already finished it!"
Martha could believe it all too well. Clark was good about obeying rules and fortunately, didn't hunt for loopholes the way that Pete did, but he had a talent, no, make that a genius, for ending up in situations where there weren't any rules. He'd never shown any interest in coffee before and so, rather than create forbidden fruit, they'd never told him not to drink it. But then Jonathan had left a full mug on the table and next thing he knew, Clark had reached for it, carried it into the living room, and gulped it down.
"I've counted about thirty laps," she commented, deciding not to push the guilt, at least not until some occasion when she might need to.
"I stopped counting before you came back. Around 200." He shook his head.
She and Jonathan had sat up late one night, trying to develop a clear sense of where the boundaries of exploiting Clark's abilities were, making sure that he knew to use them appropriately. Given his nature, it was beautifully clear, once they saw it: Have him do the normal chores any farm boy would do and his own instincts to help would lead him to offer to do anything else he felt was within his capabilities.
She wondered if, once he really understood what the windmill was and what it did, he'd offer to drink a cup of coffee and hitch himself to it. Ethically, she didn't like the idea one bit--it felt too much like using him, even if he did offer--but that couldn't keep her from snickering at the reaction of the local utilities department when they saw that instead of paying about two dollars a month for the extra energy the Kent farm added to the grid, they had to pay hundreds or thousands since all of a sudden, it was providing enough power for all Smallville. Maybe for all Metropolis.
"Fifty-two. I think he's slowing down."
***
After another half-hour, it was apparent that Clark was slowing down. Still going too quickly to hear them, she suspected, but nonetheless, slowing down.
Forty-five minutes after that, she tried calling to him, but the wind he was creating still must have been blowing too fast.
She wanted a cup of coffee herself--just watching him was exhausting.
***
"Clark!" By mid-afternoon, his path had actually worn a significant trench around the farm and as he slowed, they could occasionally see him a bit more clearly. Jonathan wasn't sure he wanted to; it was disconcerting to see what looked like a disembodied head running around the farm at warp speed.
He'd finally slowed down enough to hear them and leaped from the trench to come over to them.
Clark hadn't quite mastered the art of slowing down or stopping from a fast run, and often stumbled over his own feet or wasn't able to coordinate them, sending him into a fall that would have seriously injured any other child, but most of the time, just made him giggle, except when he was in a mood to be frustrated.
Coffee, having finally watched enough baseball on television, or perhaps a growing inborn understanding of his body must have given him a new idea. About fifty feet away, he jumped into the air, folded himself in a v-shape with his legs up, and landed on his bottom, skidding to a halt right at their feet.
Jonathan couldn't resist it. "Safe!" He shouted, spreading his arms wide.