A MIRACULOUS JOURNEY WITH THOR AND HISSTORY — CHAPTER ONE

The rainbow boa constrictor slid effortlessly onto the overhanging limb of the chartreuse African thorn acacia. Avoiding the long sharp spines, she inched forward, camouflaged by verdant vegetation. Careful, calculating, cool, and calm, the predator knew precisely where she was heading and what she would do when she reached her destination. There would be no deviation and no hesitation. Soundlessly, she stalked her target in the lush protection of the primeval forest, her indiscernible forked tongue darting in and out. Each passing moment drew the scaly coils ominously closer to the unsuspecting prey.

Under the widespread umbrella of the splendid fever tree stood a moderately tall, slender-built adolescent, dressed in blue jeans and long-sleeved khaki shirt. Absorbed in a dainty, silvery spider crawling across his palm, the fair-complexioned thirteen-year-old male, crowned with tousled ebony hair, was spellbound. The metallic critter, casting a rash of rainbow hues that magically danced in the dappled shade, beguiled the student who had recently researched spiders. Sadly, it would be his undoing.

Moored by her tail to a limb, the reptile swooped without warning, promptly girthing the taut teen, as the spider landed on a leaf. Eyes stricken with horror, the valiant victim struggled in vain to escape the deadly grip of the serpent. He thrashed from side to side, his hands trying to pry apart the suffocating beast. Coils tightened around his torso, with boy and boa in mortal combat. Gasping for breath, his motions became weaker and weaker until he succumbed, his supple body hitting the soil, entwined with the strangling snake. Silence hovered over the vanquished and the victor, cushioned atop the color-muted compost of the forest floor.

A gruff masculine voice in the distance pierced the stillness. “Thor. We’re leaving.”

One of the liquid green eyes belonging to Thor Tayson opened slightly. The boa hastily reacted and sidled within striking range. As she stared into the boy’s eye, her forked tongue flicked the human nose. Thor’s pupils popped open at the contact. His hand arose to caress the hissing snake, which licked his wrist in response. Sitting up, Thor easily uncoiled the boa constrictor with an impish grin.  

“Awesome ambush, Hisstory. You’re a brilliant strategist.”   

 Louder and gruffer, the remote voice was emphatic. “Thor, we’re waiting for you. We must go straightaway.”   

“Behave yourself, look friendly and stop hissing,” Thor coached the snake affably. “I have a surprise. You’re coming home with me tonight.”

Rising, Thor smoothed his rumpled clothing, relooped his torso with Hisstory, and departed the rain forest enclosure, securing the glass portal. He strode into the Museum of Natural Wonders’ corridor and joined the gathered lads and lasses, tended by Virgil Theogen, captain of the Institute for Independent Children, a proud title describing the esteemed orphanage.

Repulsed by the proximity of a giant, conspicuously quiet snake, the youngsters retreated. Theogen, his preferred first name, eased their fears.

“Don’t be alarmed. She won’t harm you. She’s domesticated. Thor’s taking her home to celebrate his birthday. It’s but once you turn thirteen. I daresay this snake’s better trained than animals I’ve seen rambling our residence.”

He raised his eyebrows at specific tots, who squirmed sheepishly.

“Form one line. Don’t delay. We’re going home.”

The group fell into an orderly procession, Thor and the boa at the tail, respectfully spaced trailing the rest. Down the hall they marched; into the ornate foyer they poured, exiting the Museum to the less exotic world beyond its borders.

From the moment Thor spotted Hisstory at Planet Petstar, he wanted the reptile. It didn’t matter that he had come predisposed to a canine, the norm with minors. It didn’t matter that the director was stupefied by the shy male’s fascination with this slimy-looking pretext for a pet. It had to be the idea of a prankster to slip the snake inside this neighborhood store, where the unwary would bring juveniles to purchase a cute cuddly puppy, and wind up dismayed to find a bashful boy bewitched by a demon, or de monster, as often referred to by the teacher, Poncil Klaverstan.  

Ultimately, naught was done, but buy the beast. The choice was Thor’s in the end.  Theogen realized no amount of persuasion would alter his decision.  Rarely were Thor’s instincts faulty. He knew the rules and took full responsibility for his actions. His intuition was uncanny, and the supervisor of the Institute privately patronized innate assets a child might possess, although he publicly endorsed the restrictions of the embedded regime.             

The serpent’s name summoned speculation. Thor explained to those who asked, “Hisstory is an ideal name. She hisses and undoubtedly has an enthralling story, if only she could converse. Plus reptiles have a lengthy history.”

Thor arrived at the Institute when he was six weeks old, lacking documents about kinship. Ancestry was classified. Theogen knew solely that anomalous brain waves occurred during sleep at random. Whilst a baby, Thor’s exterior was pedestrian. Ripening under the sun, attired or not, his fair skin amplified. Instead of tanning, he was gradually bleached, not a chalky white, but a translucent alabaster. The subtle coloring was fractionally noticeable when clothed, the inverse of bathing or dressing. Exposure carried the penalty of merciless persecution by teasing tots who saw him, until he seldom garbed or showered amongst them. Barring that, his infancy was conventional. Out of the ordinary behavior necessitated a report to the authorities, which was standard protocol. Not an ounce of oddity was there to share thus far. As pigmentation was outlawed as an element of behavioral prosecution, Thor’s exaggerated paleness was exempted from scrutiny. Furthermore, citing skin color for inspection would have been termed racist.

Self-cloistered as a custom, Thor did not foster intimate friendships. Uncommon complexion contributed to him feeling a pariah linked to no person, place, or thing. Yet the recesses of his mind harbored an antithetical realm – a union with the totality of creation which he cognized to be the true reality. 

Thor heard boys and girls mention their parents and the circumstances that brought them to the Institute. He knew nothing about his. Neither did he want to know nor remember. Maybe it was for the better, he analyzed. Tackling the topic was painful. If his parents were alive, why did they reject him?  If his parents were dead, it was worse. His heart could not bear to ruminate on it. 

Thor had scant curiosity about subjects that were discussed and didn’t ask or answer questions in class. What an instructor taught, he accepted. Up until the reptile, that is. When Thor was profiled in years to come, Hisstory was highlighted in the timeline. The boa was tagged the catalyst in what was to follow and implicitly understood in retrospect.

The pioneer to discern a break in pattern was Amiry Kinchell. While Thor scored above average in her class, he was apathetic to biology. Therefore, weeks after Hisstory came into his life, she was surprised that Thor did not bolt out of the classroom with the rest of the exodus. Ambling past the displays, he halted at one. Bustling for her next class, Amiry observed his delayed departure out of the corner of her eye. The following day when class ended, she cautiously peeked. There he was. Why?

Amiry was ordered to note and relay deviance in a pupil’s conduct. Ambivalent as a monitor, reports provoked her resentment. She knew she could be fired for failure to transmit a millimeter of variance. Dissent she dared not voice, despite abhorrence to the State stance on what she pegged as spying.     

Widowed without progeny, Amiry loved her students. Twice a month, she baked delectable chocolate chip cookies and distributed them to her classes. The children looked forward to this fest, but Thor alone reciprocated with sweet-scented flowers. Inside the Institute walls grew a weed-filled garden of sorts. Not counted among its untidy residents were these blossoms. Amiry wondered where he obtained them, but wouldn’t invade his gratitude.  

Four feet nine inches tall and notably thin, Amiry’s frail-looking frame was false. She robustly walked three miles round-trip daily to work. Graying hair, but green at heart, she was the orphanage optimist, finding glimmers in every tunnel she encountered. Orphans generated a lot of tunnels. What was lurking in Thor’s? Why did he tarry at the arachnid display. Nobody was interested in spiders, excluding Amiry who was famous for her fondness. Dubbed Octolegs by the kids, she traditionally brought a docile tarantula to class to overcome adolescent fear.

Amiry detested the killing of creatures, especially spiders. There was an unwritten rule that all insects venturing inside her class were to be respected and gently escorted to a suitable outside habitat. She hoped the display might inspire a healthy admiration for spiders and deter destruction by her pupils, but what was it that seized Thor’s attention two days in a row? On her way home, she plotted a plan to uncover the cause.

The next day, Amiry finished a lesson on aquatic mammals, announced the nocturnal assignment, and asked, “Questions about the homework or today’s topic?”

Five minutes were left. The air reverberated with rustling slates and bagging books in preparation for dispersion. No questions were asked. Imminent was the bell ring. A smile skimmed Amiry’s lips. She addressed the volley of eyes converged on the ticking wall clock. 

“Before we adjourn, can you identify a biology specimen that permits its newborn to eat it alive for nourishment?”

 Amiry had no expectation of a response even if the answer was known. She had her inferred rule about insects. Juveniles had their inferred rule about the final minutes of class. No one ever began a discussion or asked a question during that time period.   

“Mull it over. We’ll talk tomorrow –”

A hand rose timidly, arresting her mid-speech. Sounds ceased, save the preponderant clock tick. Peers pivoted to Thor, aghast that his errant hand had strayed upward out of control, as if against his will. He retracted the misbehaving appendage with dubious ownership to no avail. The crime had been committed.

Amiry’s voice hid her excitement. “Yes, Thor?”

Thor quivered, lagging as long as he could.

“Thor?” Amiry repeated to encourage him.

Wilting was the queasy voice that sputtered, “A female spider.”

Amiry was impressed. “That’s a good example. Can you pinpoint an arachnid having this trait?”

Generated electricity from this mounting discourse encompassed the room. Thor stalled to swivel round, his features pleading for a classmate to bail him out. Absent volunteers, eyes remained glued on him. Distinctly uncomfortable, he plodded, gaining confidence as he advanced.

“Cheiracanthium japonicum. Another is Amaurobius ferox.”

“Excellent,” marveled Amiry. She had not discussed these species or appointed tasks divulging this information. Thor was evidently executing extended research. Forcing composure to eclipse her ebullience, she continued milking him.

“What’s the term used to define the consumption of the willing mother by her offspring?”

Thor commented concisely, “Matriphagy.” 

“I wonder, is the maternal sacrifice an act of heroism or altruism?” 

His eyes locked on Amiry’s, Thor vocalized without vacillating. “Neither. It’s instinct, just pure instinct.”

The tick tock of the clock was hypnotic in the ensuing silence. The bell chimed. The spell was broken. Class was over. The room rapidly emptied, retaining a straggler. Thor deliberately stuffed his books inside his backpack and glanced at Amiry before leaving. She sensed his look, but did not make eye contact, nor chronicle his aberration. An unspoken message bridged them. Attraction to spiders was not a sin. 

 Thor walked down the hall, ignoring the stares of classmates. Lacking desire of distinction, he was disquieted by his outburst. News of the spontaneous exchange between Thor and Amiry permeated the air like a soft mist sprayed into the terse spotlight, then evaporated as the heat of day doused the occupants of the orphanage.

The Institute for Independent Children defied the architectural modes of its era. Basking in a tree-lined suburb, passersby were struck by its resemblance to mud castles constructed by carefree kids at play on a buff sandy beach. Lofty spires of cascading ripples, formed by an apparent frothy mixture of sand and water suspended in motion, were recognized from afar. Three stories high, the rectangular complex enclosed a scraggly nucleus, essentially a weed patch miscast as a garden. Bordering the miscast garden lay a popular course used for walking, jogging, and sporadic races, adjacent to the children’s playground. The rooftops undulated in featured sculptures garish with overlapping brightly-colored tile that glistened in the sun and glowed with the moon. A composition of curves fashioned the frolicsome façade boasting billowy balconies mimicked to swagger and sway. The beatific structure sparkled in the blistering heat.   

Classes completed, Thor exited the edifice, speeding along the sidewalk to the Museum, a half mile jaunt from the Institute. Aerodynamic vehicles glided lickety-split past him, hovering above the street propelled by drivers in sundry directions minus risk of collision. Unique force fields encasing them precluded accidents. The grand steps to the Museum were within sight. Before tackling the ascent, Thor opened his knapsack and extracted the bottle braced betwixt books. He unscrewed the cap and poured the liquid down his throat. Two boys senior in age headed for him. To the sound of their jeering, he scampered up the steps. Accustomed to the barbs of bullies in the district, he uniformly ditched them. They hounded isolated students found roving from the Institute. 

The Museum of Natural Wonders catapulted Thor into a world light years remote from his. Pulverized was his plight as an orphan once steeped within the elaborately detailed exhibits of forests, jungles, deserts, mountains, rivers, and oceans. He lost track of time in the vast canyons shared with Hisstory. By agreement, Thor picked up his pet inside the primeval rain forest and strolled with Hisstory encircling him. Alternately, the serpent slithered alongside him. The bystanders they encountered watched the two, but left them secluded.  

On this auspicious day, the Museum director, Stafford Klingshire, chanced upon the  pair. 

“Good day, Thor. How are you doing?”

“Fine, Mr. Klingshire.” Automatically suspect of snoops, Stafford didn’t fall into that contentious prying category. Concern for Thor’s welfare was genuine, plus authentic consideration shown the staff.  An additional reason elevated Thor’s comfort. The director was instrumental in lodging Hisstory on the premises. Thor was duly circumspect in appreciation, since scant adults would have tolerated the notion.

“Want to test my forthcoming presentation?” 

“May I take Hisstory?”

“Why disband a dynamite duet? Come with me.”   

Stafford led Thor, looped with Hisstory, into a corridor lined with rotating exhibits on tidal waves, glaciers, icebergs, chasms, painted deserts, and petrified forests. Glancing at the familiar sights, peace descended upon Thor. He apprehended these phenomena as mosaics of his mercurial mind. The violence of a volcanic eruption with spewing molten lava contrasted with the grandeur of magnificent, gigantic sequoia trees. Comprehended from a core inside him that was itself fathomless, these marvels became etched into the diamond of his multifaceted life.    

Stafford stopped at a barricade. “Close your eyes.” 

Thor hesitated. Why was he uneasy? Didn’t he trust this man? Certain Stafford was benign, he shuttered his sight. The director led him by the hand past the partition to a darkened designation. At minimal expanse from Thor, he energized the presentation.

“It’s ready. Check it out.” 

Thor opened his eyes, poised on a precipice overlooking a humongous canyon. Previous depictions paled by comparison. A rollicksome river wound through it. The majestic sun shone overhead, streaking velvet shadows amidst the colorful carvings which drenched Thor’s vision. He dropped to the floor, seated with legs crossed, saturated by superlative rock formations rising in layers from the earth’s depths. Moving the boa from torso to lap, he stroked her affectionately. “Behold, my friend, the grandest canyon in the universe.”

Stafford registered Thor’s visceral response. Motivated by Thor’s many Museum visits, surpassing guests of every age even prior to Hisstory’s inception, he resolved impromptu to plumb through the sparkling eyes of a youth enamored by natural history. Also, a spry spirit simultaneously inviting and invigorating.    

It had not escaped Stafford’s attention that Thor’s prerequisite for obtaining Hisstory was to house her in the rain forest of the Museum, the boy’s stipulation not instigated by the Institute. Refusing to burden the orphanage with an unorthodox pet, he insisted the reptile be domiciled in the best habitat. A frequent visitor to his favorite haunt, the Museum was top pick on Thor’s short list when he proposed the idea. Had Stafford not overheard the intriguing dialogue while passing Thor and Lucia Sorquel, the manager on duty, Hisstory would not have taken residence. 

“Hisstory’s exactly what this Museum needs,” Thor was expounding. “People crave stimulation. Strong visual impacts draw kids like me. We don’t come to be bored. We thrive on imagination and creativity, which are at their peak when we’re minors. Denials we hear seal doors in our mind that won’t reopen. If a barrage of doors slam shut, our hope is extinguished. Our dreams die.”  

“You’re a slip of a child. What do you know about slamming doors?” Lucia responded.

Thor sensed he’d struck a nerve. “They surround me. I’m an orphan. This Museum can ram doors wide open. It can preserve hope and keep our dreams afloat.” 

“We can, but not with Hisstory.”

“Hisstory is fraught with adventure and excitement.” 

“Hisstory is fraught with hazard and terror.”  

“History is fraught with lessons to imbibe, a principal tool of erudition,” Stafford interjected from the rear. 

Lucia and Thor pivoted.   

“Oh, I didn’t see you, sir,” said Lucia. 

“Pardon my eavesdropping, Lucia. Mind if I join the conversation?”

“I welcome it,” Lucia replied. Satisfied by her diplomacy, she enlisted his alliance. 

Stafford addressed Thor. “Stafford Klingshire at your service. What’s your name, young man?”

“Thor Tayson, sir.”

“You have a proposal regarding history?” 

Lucia corrected his pronunciation, stressing the hiss. “It’s Hisstory, the name of his pet snake.”  

“Ah, I didn’t realize! Clever name for a serpent,” Stafford commented.

“I explained we’re a museum, not a zoo. People would balk at huge, live, creepy things. It’s a gamble we can’t afford.” Lucia assumed Stafford would be unimpressed by the spirited youth’s claims.

Thor persevered. “She is live and huge, but she’s not a thing. She’s a beautiful rainbow boa constrictor. How can you say she’s creepy when you haven’t met her?”

“I don’t need to meet her to make that call. Beautiful or not, snakes are creepy,” Lucia answered decisively.

“Where’s your objectivity?” Thor asked. 

“The boy has a point,” Stafford remarked.  

“What point?” Lucia was surprised. Was her boss switching sides? 

“Objectivity. I concur. Snakes aren’t creepy. Go on, resume your petition.”   

Thor was encouraged. “Kids would flock to see the fanciful should Hisstory reside here.”

“Snakes are fanciful? That’s a stretch,” Lucia asserted.

“Hisstory is, given the opportunity. She’d be the star attraction of the rain forest without jeopardy, as she’d be safely tucked behind glass. Moreover, there’s no charge for her services. I assure you it’s a win win proposition. Legally she’s my pet. Her care is my responsibility. I simply ask to visit and bring her home periodically. Please, will you consider it?”

“Your venture does have merit,” Stafford admitted.  

Thor grinned. The director was hooked, finding serpents coupled with creative potential irresistible.

 “You can’t be serious!” Lucia was appalled. Peering from Stafford to Thor, she knew they had bonded, launching an agreement.    

Thor and Stafford shook hands. Lucia shook her head. Ugh. She concluded the propensity for snakes was gender-related, a male idiosyncrasy. That was the day Thor pierced Stafford’s awareness beyond a frequent visitor, and, for reasons privy to the elder, that awareness stuck. He had three grown daughters, but no son. Maybe that was why, his employees postulated. Whatever the basis for his disposition, Stafford consistently coddled Thor and doted on Hisstory, who did in fact become the star attraction of the rain forest.  

Quizzing Thor on the presentation was unnecessary, ascertained Stafford. Perspicuous was the profoundly-touched teen who recognized the panoramic landscape of the Grand Canyon. Outdating those preceding, background projected graphics seamlessly integrated foreground three-dimensional reliefs in state-of-the-art technology. The simulated sun spanned the artificial sky with a gamut of clouds, causing colors to shift their shade scaling the patterned canyon walls, highlighted by superb sunrises and sunsets.

While Stafford typically questioned his personnel, he uncharacteristically abstained from disrupting Thor. The poignant reaction prompted the director to act as he had not with his staff. Sitting side by side, they shared a stupendous canyon sunset. No words were required nor were spouted, isolating diffuse hisses from Hisstory, purring like a kitten to Thor’s pampered caress.    

Immersed in the opulence of the Museum presentation, Thor sprinted home before dark. Intimidated by night, he seldom returned to the Institute past twilight. He mingled with the meager stragglers in the dining hall on the verge of closing. Executing snap judgments on edible entrees, he avoided the carnivorous, attributed to meat aversion since a toddler. He briskly ate at the available table, prepared for his classes, took a shower, put on his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed. 

Thor’s mind was playing tricks on him, cruel tactile tricks. Adrift in slumber, his relished reminiscence of the Grand Canyon nose-dived. Vaporized was the warm, sunny day. What was amiss with the weather? A tangible vista sharper than the Museum portrayal assaulted him, compounded by cold, bitter cold.

“I’m dreaming,” he murmured.

Was this optical illusion merely mental? Snubbing that haywire hypothesis, his body shuddered, flooded by frosty air. Gusts of wind whipped his nostrils. Trivial breaths fogged his sight.  Thor’s dream was authentic to the degree he could swear he was there. Gone was his bed. Clad in inappropriate pajamas, he stood on a crag bordering the Grand Canyon, chilled to the bone. What was falling on him?  He squinted upward. The sky was sprinkling a peculiar, white powder, coating a previous layer spilled on the terrain around him, under his stinging bare soles, and similarly redusting the tops of flamboyant rock formations. The same composition he had seen at the Museum. Called snow or ice or sleet defined by its major characteristics, the integral component dominated arctic exhibits. 

In mounting consternation, Thor rubbed his eyes, then slapped his cheek. Ouch! It hurt. A second tremor rippled through his whittled body. He stepped ahead, his pale feet freezing on the slippery flurries. The shift in weight unbalanced him. Whoosh! Down he went, tumbling to the snowy turf, thrust forward. He clambered to grasp a rock protruding from the creamy earth. The swift slide halted. A sharp pain riddled his anchored palm. The erratic skid had impelled him recklessly close to the graveled edge. He glimpsed the frightening bottom. His numbing body ached. The iciness was becoming unbearable.   

Indistinct voices shouted. “Don’t move. Stay where you are.”

Whose were they? Thor craned his neck in panic. Barreling toward him from afar were two men in foreign uniforms. They were scarier than his tenuous mooring. Thor trembled. Why were they chasing him? What did he do? Would they arrest him? What crime did he commit? Capture by the strangers was out of the question. He stared below. What option was viable? What if he jumped off the edge? Would he soar like an eagle to escape the men, would he wake up in bed to outwit the dream, or would he crash to the canyon floor to be scavenged by vultures? Was there an alternative?

Thor shut his eyes, desperately reciting, “This is a dream. I can govern it.”

He had to believe he could. Drowning the dream to escape his dilemma, he cleaved to a solitary image – his bed at home. Conflicting internal voices were shattering his sanity.  This is not a dream.  Not a dream!

Scorning their screams, his chapped lips snapped back stubbornly, “Focus. Whether a dream or not doesn’t matter. Focus and forget the rest. I’m home in bed. Focus. Shielded in my bed. Focus!” Tenacious was his mind, ironclad in conviction.    

The chafed hand clenching the rock caved; the fingers imploded upon a void. The chill lifted. Warmth engulfed him. Thor opened his eyes. He was lying in bed. His body was shivering. His teeth were chattering. His pajamas and feet were wet. Fluid was oozing from his palm. In the dark, he smelled the blood. His benumbed feet tingled. He massaged them until the frictional heat nullified the pain. Standing felt like eons before he succeeded. Switching into dry gear, he put on the thickest socks he could find. In the bathroom, he rinsed the blood off his skin. The crimson liquid clotted, but forming was discoloration where the palm had been scraped.  

Thor scanned the children in repose. Undisturbed was their peace; unobserved was his angst. The remnants of his dream – the wet, the cold, the blood – he couldn’t comprehend. Nor did he care to grope for explanations. Dry and warm, he simply wanted to sleep. He crawled into bed. Snug under the sheets, he curled into a fetal ball and bathed in the welcomed calm.

*     *     *

The wary Park Rangers stood sadly at the summit where Thor had lain earlier. Cautious, they peered over the brink, incredulous as they spoke.  

“Don’t understand. I could have sworn we’d save him.”

“Shame. Couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen.”

“His parents must be in the vicinity.” 

“I’d rule out suicide.” 

“Agreed. Probably slipped and fell.”   

“Was he wearing pajamas?” 

“Pajamas with bare feet. Bizarre.”

Stumped in sorrow, they sighed.    

“Let’s get back, round up the posse.”  

The inquest was initiated, the search party organized, the tragic accident publicized and preserved in print for posterity. To the Rangers’ dismay, no person reported a missing child, and no body was ever retrieved. This unsolved mystery became a classic cold case in the Grand Canyon history.