A MIRACULOUS JOURNEY WITH THOR AND HISSTORY — CHAPTER SEVEN

Ruslan was soaring in the sky, hitched firmly by a harness to his mom and dad, Tressla and Jovian Arelius. He waved to his freckle-faced baby brother awaiting his turn below, though, unlike Ruslan, Jered could fly on his own. This premier flight was the culmination of years of yearning, six years to be exact, as Ruslan was precisely six. He asked for wings on his fifth birthday. Tressla and Jovian watched him open the gift. The wings were beautiful, but not real. He couldn’t hide his crestfallen face when lectured by his parents after climbing on the roof. Didn’t they understand he wanted real wings, not fake beauties? This birthday was the best, because his mom and dad revealed a secret that ended his quest. They were his wings upon which he could rest. Lucky to have parents proficient to fly, he didn’t resent or question why he was the only family member bereft of this talent. Without a care to be lifted into the air, he looked at the brighter side. So much he’d be able to do, now that he knew the family secret. The adept trio glided gracefully over the rustic patchwork quilt patterns of farms, ranches, and pastures overflowing with colorful vegetables, fruits, grains, flora and fauna. On and on they flew while Ruslan marveled at the panoramic landscape.

“Oh, my ears!” squealed Tressla.

“Ow!” wailed Jovian.  

“What’s wrong?” Ruslan cried out, alarmed.

His parents’ anguished answer of action was terrifying – a sharp descent to earth, though gentle landing by a waterfall.

“Pain… swelling pain…” Jovian spluttered.

“Help… get help…” yelled Tressla. 

Ruslan was frantic. He screamed for assistance. No one came. He spied a rural road beyond the densely-packed trees.

“Stay here. Don’t worry. I’ll be back with aid.” 

Tressla and Jovian nodded in agony, huddled together cupping their ears by the waterfall.  

Ruslan charged down the hill. Alongside the road, he waved his arms over his head to flag a vehicle. Freight containers zoomed by menacingly close, kicking up the winds, propelling him backwards. At last a transport beeped its horn, braked up ahead.

“Please help. My parents are hurt,” Ruslan bellowed to the driver.

“Hop inside, son. Shasterly Sussfield at your service,” said the gentleman in his late seventies, dressed in a navy blue suit with ivory hair and a friendly face etched with empathy.

Ruslan opened the back and settled inside, the sole passenger.

“What’s your name?”

“Ruslan.”

“Where are your parents, Ruslan?”

“They’re up that hill by the waterfall,” Ruslan pointed in a rush.

The conveyor cruised on a cushion of air over the rocks and brush, deftly skirting the trees.

“Tell me what happened.”

“We were fly – I mean floating, floating in the water, and they got a pain in their ears.”

“Floating in the water?”

“I was learning to float, at the waterfall.” 

“I see. Wearing what? Your clothes are dry.”

“We were skinny-dipping.”

“Skinny-dipping?”

“It’s fun.”

“Naturally. You live in the vicinity?”

“Vicinity?”

“Neighborhood.”

“Not really.”    

“How did you get here?”

“We hiked.”

“Of course. You hiked.”

“Hiking is healthy.”

“Naturally. A hospital’s nearby. I’ll take your parents there.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Ruslan floundered with the fictitious facts of his fabricated fairy tale to keep under wraps the family secret. Why did the man ask so many questions? Relief to see the waterfall turned to dread. His mom and dad were missing.   

“I don’t understand. They were right here,” Ruslan gestured.

“We’ll have a search round. We’ll find them, unless they’ve already been found.”

“They wouldn’t leave without me. They’re my parents.”

“Naturally. For one so young, your words are wise.”  

Shasterly maneuvered back and forth, up and down, traversing the entire terrain.

“Ear aches are a nasty business and suspicious besides,” he remarked glibly.

“Suspicious?” Ruslan was puzzled.

“You’re certain you were floating or was that purely a disguise?”

“I’m certain we were floating. Certain.” 

Shasterly whistled. “Mighty tidy tale you tell; you think it has a chance to sell?”

“I’m telling the truth. We were floating.”

“Ah, there’s the rub. Floating where?  In the water or in the air?”

“Floating in the air? What do you mean?”

“Heard of levitation? Or volitation?  Simpler yet, have you heard of flying?” 

“Flying? Like birds?”

“There you go, kiddo. Good example.” 

“Get real. People can’t fly.”

“Oh no?” Shasterly stopped the transport and swiveled to face the edgy child, his voice toned mild. “I’ve heard talk of people flying – like birds – in these parts, illegal unless they’re endorsed as certified fliers with an issued license in force, the fly document annually renewable of course. Otherwise, they run the risk of ear pain which intensifies until they’re caught. The masquerading of levitating makes misfit fliers a miserable lot. Only the State can cease the ache. If you’re lying about flying, Ruslan, it’s a huge mistake. Ear pain, that’s the clue. The State always knows where we are and what we do. You want to aid your parents? Tell the truth. Cease this farce; you’ve had fun long enough. If you comply and confess, the State won’t get tough, but navigate with lies and your seas will sail rough.”

Ruslan blanched; a tremor trampled his body reeling with fright, for a moment obscuring his vision. “Where are my parents?” he demanded bluntly.

“Arrested, no doubt. Once the pain starts, capture is imminent; they’ve been found out.”

“Jered, my little brother! I’ve got to go. I must find him.” Ruslan grabbed the handle to exit the vehicle, but his touch triggered the locks to snap shut resounding with a ferocious finality, trapping him.

“Safety mechanism. Precautious insurance companies can’t have people accidentally falling out and harming themselves,” explained Shasterly, matter-of-fact.  

“I wasn’t falling out. I want out. My brother’s waiting. He needs me,” Ruslan said evenly, forcing himself to remain calm.

“Relax. No hurry. About your brother, not to worry. I’m positive he’s safe with the State. When parents get snatched, their broods are lassoed mighty tidy. No loose ends to mar the family’s fate.”

Ruslan panicked, pounding the conveyor, shouting defiantly, “Let me out! You’re wrong!  Loose ends? What about me? I wasn’t lassoed mighty tidy.”

“That’s why I’m here, Ruslan Arelius. Shasterly Sussfield at your service.” He started cackling, a sinister expression erupting across his melting face, exposing the bare bones of a grinning skeleton.

Ruslan emitted a guttural scream and awoke in a sweat from his fantasy dream. He sat up in bed, wiping the beads of perspiration glistening on his forehead. Though this nightmare frequented the years subsequent to the seizure of his brother and parents, the lump in his throat was quite apparent. Exacerbating the six-year-old’s dilemma was the suicide of his uncle, three weeks after Ruslan was roosted in his care. Without an available relative, the decision was brisk; none objected to the orphanage whisk.  .  

In the bathroom, Ruslan splashed water on his face. Without drying, he returned to his allotted place. His rambling eyes came to rest on Thor across the expanse, peaceful in repose. Affinity with his friend meant a meeting on the morrow. In his unsettling dream by the waterfall was writing posted on the wall, fomenting impulses that had to learn to take their turn. He resisted his yearning, but his stomach cramped as he sat in tension combating the urge; from the normal ebb and flow, he wouldn’t diverge. Wearing a smile as a pleasant guise, he slouched back in bed and shuttered his eyes, careful to merge with the status quo.   

Ruslan was nonchalant as the trio dressed for school in the morn. 

“Meet me in the garden at lunch.”

His buddies nodded. Appearances met the plodding norm. The slow-footed clock dragged its countdown toward noon. The dining room line had the nerve to balloon. Lunch bags in hand, the brothers-in-arms departed for the nether regions of the garden, sitting under their selected copse, speaking in hushed tones. 

“What’s up?” Dov asked, as they munched on finely-textured sandwiches of orange-hued meshed grain and octagonal-shaped bluish fruit.

“I mentioned my past at the Museum, but never elaborated.”

Dov shrugged, “We all have a past.” 

Ruslan struggled as the past he had closeted became unfurled. “My parents and brother were taken by the authorities when I was six. Jered was only four –”    

Thor interrupted, “There’s no need, Ruslan. We don’t pry. Your past is your own.”

Ruslan stayed on his melancholy course, unstoppable. “They had abilities. That’s why they… disappeared.”

Thor stopped eating, temporarily petrified, his eyes glassy.

Dov darted to Thor, then shifted to Ruslan. “What kind of abilities?”

Taking aim, Ruslan implored.

“Your kind, Thor. Are you listening? You need to hear this.”

The rich jade eyes concentrated on Ruslan. “Go on if you must.”

“I don’t remember the night they were seized. I’ve tried to recollect some detail, but my mind’s a blank. Doctors chalk it up to trauma. I never knew how they were discovered. They were private, my parents and baby brother. Except for me, they kept their talents secret. I felt left out lacking their qualities, but they assured me that I was fortunate not to fear a guillotine hanging over my ordinary head. I thought someone had betrayed them to the officials, but I have dreams that say otherwise, if they’re true. In those nightmares that have never ceased since I lost my family, my parents complain about an earache before they’re captured. That’s what I want to say. The ear pain is the clue to their detection and arrest. I have to stop. I can’t swallow.”

Ruslan halted abruptly, his hoarse voice impeded. He took a drink of amber hydrate to relieve his arid throat. 

In the interim Dov repeated the fretful phrase, “Ear pain?”

Ruslan nodded. “Not only that. In the dream, I’m told we’re watched by the State. The ear pain is the key to everything.”

Dov asked, “Did your parents and brother have an earache before they were taken?”

“No recall. That’s the problem. Moreover, I can’t cite specific assets they possessed. I dream they fly like birds, but that’s my projection. I’ve always fantasized about levitating and flying, though that’s ridiculous.” He looked curiously at Thor, “Or is it?”  

“Come on, Ruslan. I’m not superman.”

“But could you be?”

“Whatever I may be, it’s paramount I’m not imprisoned, foremost that I’m free.”  

“You sidestepped the question.”

“I won’t speculate.”

 “Do you believe in fate?”

“Free will, Ruslan. I believe in choice, in options. Yet on the horizon I already perceive a single road rising chosen by me, the road I ride to my destiny.”

“A single road to your destiny?” inquired Dov.

“Remember that expression, All roads lead to Rome?”

Ruslan gazed at Thor, “Where do your roads lead? What’s your Rome?”

“What do your dreams say, Ruslan?”

“You can live a safe life in freedom, if you just stick to the conventional.”

“A safe life is a slow safe death. Give me a quick death, but a hearty fight to the finish. Why keep my body alive, when my spirit will diminish? Growing old, masking what’s true, is a punishment I eschew. Although as a mate you warn, I won’t contrive my steps to stay inside a norm dictated by others.

 “Wouldn’t you find fulfillment in freedom?” queried Dov.

Thor contemplated an existence wrought with vigilant adaptation. “There’s no salvation in abnegation. What’s freedom if you practice self-bondage? Monitored externally or internally, jailed by society or self-imposed bars, I don’t find one poison more palatable than the other. Both are draconian to the health of my soul. I choose a grave over branding as a slave. Not even my plight will I exempt if shackled in chains of my self-contempt. You ask where my roads lead; they lead to wipe out tyranny. My Rome is my right to be truly free. I fully embrace my destiny. Though my road may end in obscurity, it’ll be paved with the blood of my liberty.”

Taken aback, Ruslan gibed, “Oh, please, Thor. Save the histrionics. Just because I have these dreams, who can say for certain what that means?” 

Dov was optimistic, “They’re only dreams. Maybe we’re not watched.” 

Emphatic was Thor’s unflinching conviction. “We are.”

“You’re a pessimist,” remarked Ruslan. 

“On the contrary. A realist like you.”

“I don’t assume.”

“Neither do I.”

“Proffer the proof,” demanded the polemic pal, terse and tempestuous in his tenacity for veracity, but he had met his match.

“My parents.”

“How’s that?” asked Dov.

“The night they came, they told me we were under surveillance. The eye of the State is upon you.  Don’t forget you’re monitored. Those were their words. You may not have heard them, Ruslan, but you saw them.”

Ruslan mulled over the evidence. “Convincing. I stand down.”

Docile Dov was dismal, “Then we are slaves. If we’re monitored, our world’s corrupted, and our freedom’s vanished.”

“Agreed. Before my dad was captured, he told me, We’re imprisoned in cloaked cages controlled by camouflaged corpses. They’re as dead as we, but neither knows it. He liked using big words. I didn’t believe him then, but I never forgot what he said. The affirmative facts provided by your parents validate my father. I admit it. Liberty is an illusion.”    

In Thor stirred a dogged repudiation. “Only if we allow it to be an illusion. Only if we surrender to this de facto State of the great pretender. Freedom is not dead as long as we don’t cave in our fight for our right.” 

Ruslan countered, “Three musketeers against the pervasive State and a world of indifference? Not a novel I’d buy. You’re in denial, Thor, and frankly naïve. Stick to the proof of your parents. Freedom is a fossil, a relic of bygone years, a mirage at best to soothe our fears. What’s lost is lost. That’s the reality I see.”

Thor entreated them, immovable. “That reality is not for me. I refuse to live in bondage, though I see neither cages nor chains. More insidious are these hideous invisible reins. I must resurrect our liberty and lacerate this litany of lies.”

Thor peered from Ruslan to Dov. Would they flank him in his fervid fight for freedom, this burgeoning path of emergent destiny he realized he’d been treading his thirteen years?

Dov squirmed in a pensive porridge. “I don’t have a single gift, like most people unaffected who go about their business to and fro. They’re born, they die, and they never know.”

Ruslan’s punch was candid. “The risk lies in leaping out of convention. The State reacts solely to someone who draws attention.”

Thor’s shoulders drooped with a wistful sigh and downcast eye. “Someone like me.”

A behemoth butterfly perched on his wrist. Thor drew it closer, admiring the iridescent wingspread. It flapped, then flew, evanesced into the blue. He was that butterfly, transient too. Shaking off his doldrums, he straightened, scanning the mute faces of his mates, robust and resolute, reconciled to his Rome. 

“I was mistaken to plea. It’s my battle not yours. I won’t be upbraided to stoop to the State, my backbone broken, my freedom faded, my core crushed, my spirit jaded. From my path to liberty, I won’t veer even if I stand as a sole musketeer.”  

The bell ring, signaling the end of lunch, spooked the boys entrenched in their soul-searching. They returned to their classes in silence.

Captivated by his cognition, Thor sat through Amiry Kinchell’s period in a dense fog. Upended by the destiny that had descended during lunch, his distraction could not be pierced. Why hadn’t he seen the obvious earlier? The obvious? came the refrain. What had been self-evident at lunch currently sounded inane. The road to his destiny? What on earth was he thinking? That he could unilaterally conquer tyranny? Idiot! What a sanctimonious delusion to think he could thwart the grand illusion. Naïve, Ruslan had called him. Asinine was better apt for the drivel he had espoused.

Amiry detected Thor’s lack of attention, a prime aberration she initially thought to chronicle in her journal, but stayed her hand avalanched in unknown fears. She latched onto another design to pick apart his state of mind. 

“Thor,” she called.  

Caught before his exit, he rotated to face her. “Yes?”

Amiry enlisted her sweetest smile. “Would you assist me after school? I’m putting together a new exhibit, but my lifting is limited. I strained my back yesterday. It won’t take long. Please?”

Thor was torn in diverse directions. The afternoon he owned, to spend without commitment to a particular end. Though he had insisted on working at the Museum, Stafford Klingshire, who was across town, had given him the afternoon off. Engrossed with his internal conflict, he shunned company and loathed to be at anyone’s mercy, especially an educator, this symbol of authority. To do her bidding, he wasn’t bound, preventing his mission to ponder a fortress where freedom might be found. Vie to make your stand. Desist, don’t yield to her command. Take a baby step toward liberty. Start now; start here. Say no – don’t fear.

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

Thor was aghast that he’d readily assented. Camouflaged or not, he was entrapped by the façade of this amiable lady appealing to his compassion. The State was skilled to sway you in its manufactured fashion. Mrs. Kinchell’s prim portrait was painted with elaborate sympathy. No sign of a miscreant did he see. Why couldn’t she resemble an errant ogre instead of a saintly nun? Trolls are easy to rebuff, but this friendly grandma face was difficult to debunk. His warpath to shake down a masquerade was not in the running to be a slam dunk. He railed that he’d failed, robbed by the hegemony whilst caging him prevailed. Whence could he gain the wisdom to buckle this abominable system? How to scheme to defeat gargantuan masters of deceit?

Amiry was stationed outside her entry at the end of school. Thor spotted her imploring glance as he exited his final class. She never posed in earnest like that. Did she think he’d forget his commitment?   

“What can I do?” he asked politely, following her into the room.

“We’ll take down the amphibians and wrap them in this foam…” She swiveled round. “Oh, they didn’t bring the boxes. Would you fetch a few in storage?”  

The rimose repository intrigued Thor. Anything that anyone set aside for a future time, whether weeks, months, or years, was labeled and neatly stacked inside the spacious cavern. A light bulb flickered in Thor’s mind. You could get lost in this leviathan nest amid the bugs in search of conquest or the elitists competing for abodes to infest, a perfect hideaway for clandestine meetings. Some areas in back hadn’t been touched for decades.  

In the darkest, remotest nook apart from the rest, Thor squatted and slid his hand along the wood comprising the flooring, until he landed a loose section. With slight effort, he raised a plank, exposing the underneath chink. Carrying the pendant was more than a burden on his road to Rome. A dangerous gamble he could no longer take; if captured he’d be trapped by his own fatuous fate. When forced to address the jewel he possessed, what would he confess? No logical explanation would suffice for his ownership. He plucked it from his pocket and inserted it into the uncovered slot beneath the foundation, then restored the wood to its original location. Satisfied the medallion was secure, he spied the flat boxes piled on a shelf adjacent to the threshold, picked up several, plus nearby tape, and departed the storage facility, void of the gem’s lure.

“Well done. Let’s get to work and assemble them,” said Amiry upon Thor’s return. Together taping the boxes, she blithely asked, “How are you doing, dear?”

“Fine.”

“You’re kind to coach Dov.” 

“He told you?”

“Not a word. You’re a whiz and he’s been struggling. I noticed you two in the garden and did the math.”  

How observant she was trained to be. Were others astute and staid as she? How tolerant toward his maturity would they be? Thor switched subjects. “Why does he limp?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

Was the topic taboo? “I never asked, but no matter. You don’t have to say.”

“His parents beat him when he was a tot. I get angry at the thought.”

Incensed images ripped through Thor. He shuddered at the brutality suffered by his friend.   

Amiry continued, grim. “Tests revealed nothing. Perhaps the affliction is more mental than physical.”

“What befell his parents?”

“They’re alive, but we’re not privy to their whereabouts or circumstances. You’re wondering why he’s here?”

“I am.”

“He’s not technically an orphan, but he was removed from them to save his life. They’re forbidden to see him, and no other relative was fit for his care. So he was brought to the Institute.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It could have been worse. I believe his learning disability is a symptom of trauma. I’m glad you’re able to tutor him. Your influence is impressive.”

Thor dismissed the compliment. Contortion nipped his contours. “I had no idea. I feel awful.”

Amiry peered at him, intoning with zeal. “Why, Thor? Are you accountable for the world’s woes? Everyone here has a story hinged on hurt. We try to heal the wounds. Many cuts run deep in the seams of the marrow. They’re the hardest to heal, don’t you feel?”    

Infuriated focus on Dov caught Thor off guard. “I… I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered. 

“I’m not a meddler. I care about you, Thor. If you want to discuss anything, I’m here to listen. Don’t forget that.” 

Thor was touched. “I won’t, Mrs. Kinchell. Thank you.”

Amiry walked over to the shipment tucked in the corner proximate to her desk.

“These packages were delivered last night. I haven’t had a chance to peruse them.” She bent to read the label, then spoke disheartened, “That sucks. Thanks for dashing my hope.”  

Thor came up alongside her. “What is it?”

“Fake fossils from the Fister Factory, not the real deal I sought on loan from the famous Fossil Fort. I beseeched them, but I should know better. Deaf ears don’t listen.”

“May I see?”

“Certainly. Open them with this box cutter.” 

Thor serrated the bindings, unwrapped a piece, and held it up.

Amiry poked it with disdain. “So sheer, thin as veneer. Flimsy fossil, I’ll bet you can see right through its mediocrity.” She watched Thor roll it over gingerly in his hand, his palm like a scale testing its weight. “I’ll pack the amphibians. You have free rein to arrange those phony fossils.” 

“Free rein?”   

“Creative control, final say. We’re stuck with those awful fossils. Whatever you do is okay.”

Amiry cleared away the amphibian display, maintaining a gentle eye on Thor. He stood in the center of the room, spanning the expanse, poised in perspective. Naught captured his fancy until his sight strayed to the high perimeter windows and beyond them the skies. Striking his face came a random ray of light, momentarily blinding his eyes. In his mind an image flashed. His thoughts were temporarily trashed. His body became bibulous, his inner sanctum luminous, not deeming the friable fossils as frivolous. His inhibitions stepped aside to allow for the thrust of his inner drive. He forgot about his quest, forgot he had a care, forgot that Amiry Kinchell was there. No umbra clouded his ebullient face. Tribulations staggered at the loss of their primal place. 

Amiry witnessed the beam bounce on the beatific boy. Illumination hummed in tune in synch with his orbit in the room. She beheld him glowing. Move where he aimed, that extraordinary shimmer remained, though softly showing. Yet gone was the radiant beam. Her jaw dropped. She quickly clapped it shut, rubbing her eyes as if in a dream, trying not to stare. The source of the glimmer was internal, not external. How would she explain the novel occurrence in her mandatory journal? She debated if she should, questioned how and why he could, as she studied him. A veritable sea of tranquility was this epitome of harmony. Relaxed by his task, he was perfectly at ease. An embodiment of innocence, he flowed as natural as a soothing summer breeze.

   Motionless Amiry regarded Thor’s angelic optic minus awe or shock. Never had she sensed such serenity, a tonic that graced her fortunate propinquity to the modest minor. In the midst of his finesse, she glimpsed the pearl gleam evanesce. Nonetheless, she’d seen the proof that aberrant was this inscrutable youth. Would she report him to the State? Not even with her life at stake. Not only would his will be trampled, she feared he’d be crucified as an example. Short-circuited was her motivation to record the sheen of her observation.

Thor worked nonstop, grazing in the meadow of his agile mind until the finish. His energetic prowess did not diminish. Each decision divulged formidable precision. Amiry reveled in his ingenuity, marveled at his dexterity. Methodical and placid, his nexus with sunlight was tacit. He took a tall stool to reach the upper window sills. The layout of fossils was exact, punctilious positions at calculated angles aligned by his deft mental map. The might of the exhibit was powered by purposeful light. The waning sun flecked the scrupulous display. Aesthetic shadows on the walls commenced the faintest kinetic play amidst the dwindling day.

Thor pivoted to Amiry. “My part’s done. The rest is up to the sun.”

“You have a gift, Thor. I can see why they like you at the Museum.”

“Tomorrow will tell if my plan worked.”

Amiry was baffled. The fastidious fossils were well-defined. What further goal did he strive to achieve, she attempted to discern. “Your plan?” 

Thor winked. “I experimented. Wait until morning.” 

Though her curiosity was piqued, Amiry asked no more questions. “You should get going. I didn’t mean to usurp your whole afternoon.”

“I didn’t mind. I had a good time.” 

“So did I.”

Thor left the classroom, having ditched the distraught tyro who had earlier entered. He no longer felt splintered. Into the dining room, upbeat he jogged. He found his pals and ate with glee, pertinacious to buck the system no matter what the odds might be. Exhausted from the events of the day, he went to bed straightaway, falling asleep once he rested his head on the lumpy, worn pillow.  

Thus was not the case with Amiry, who woke in terror from a nightmare. Discharged from her lips was one word that shattered the silence, “Thor.” She bolted up, mumbling, “Oh my. What was I thinking?”

Turning on the bedside lamp, she wrapped her pastel peach terry cloth robe over her knee-length nightgown and donned the slippers that patiently lazed for her bare feet to enter.

“Think I’ll brew a pot of tea,” she muttered to herself.

She shuffled down the narrow hallway into her tiny kitchen. Placing the kettle on the stove to boil, she switched off the kitchen light, opened the curtains, and imbibed the sky. Resplendent was the array of incandescent stars viewed by a troubled Amiry, drinking tea until dawn, never returning to bed.