A MIRACULOUS JOURNEY WITH THOR AND HISSTORY — CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Crack! Crack! Crack! Greeting the boys in the Museum foyer was the distinct pounding of glass competing with a blaring siren. They rushed toward the rain forest exhibit. The thunderous thrashing intensified the closer they came to the barricaded threshold, the scene of a siege in action beyond. Weapons were drawn on the battering ram of a reptile.  

Hisstory was a considerably patient boa constrictor. If her secret longevity were to be exposed, her diary as placid would best the rest in the archives of the universe. Thor’s absence cued incessant weaving with fussy hisses in a skittish orbit, the inverse of her usual reticence. Her forked tongue flicked in violent thrusts amid the rapid circular slithers. Attendants premised to inquisitive patrons she pined for her comatose master, but none had the nerve to enter the compound to comfort the irascible reptile.

Crash! Crash! Crash! The serpent struck the glass repeatedly. She was not having a temper tantrum nor were these death throes. She wanted attention. She knew she could be killed, but the hourglass was emptying. Recourse for a desperate boa was limited to banging the bubble when immured behind a blockade. Her patience had run out. Entreating Ruslan was the last straw. The snake was a stickler on punctuality; the tardy teen was remiss in alacrity.

Ruslan shouted to the Museum director, who was motioning the guards to stand down, “Mr. Klingshire! Please let us inside!”

Stafford immediately parted the barrier for the boys.

“I didn’t heed the warning signs, preoccupied with Thor. We must becalm her before the glass is breached.”

 “I’ll defuse her,” insisted Ruslan. 

“I’m going with you,” committed Dov.

“Me, too,” posited Kyle.

“No, she only wants me,” arrogated Ruslan in protest pushing a crude cartoon.        

Preempting expostulations, he opened the security door and marched to meet head on the cranky constrictor. “You’ve got something to say. Spill it.”

The brooding boa pivoted, towering over the irate intruder, snarling a hiss on par with a basilisk. 

Pale plus petulant, Ruslan stood his ground stacked steep with growling guts. “You censure me, too, don’t you?”   

Hisstory hovered higher, her sonorous sibilances disturbing.

The malapert minor didn’t back down, his cocky fist beating his chest defiantly rude. “You beckoned to kill me? Here I am, so do it. Or are you a bunch of boisterous bluff beneath a barracuda bluster?”

Stafford charged the enclosure, flanked by Kyle and Dov. “You’re taunting her, Ruslan. Step away.”

In a dismissive gesture, Ruslan’s hand shot out mechanically. “Enough with the blame game. Let her finish me. I’m ready.”

Seizing the opportunity, Hisstory swooped under the hand, but the enraged youngster spontaneously jerked apart. The bothered observers stopped breathing. Where the skins had made contact gleamed faint foreign symbols on the sizable serpent.

The fierce form of Ruslan gawked. “We were at cross-purposes.”

“Keep touching her,” directed Stafford, vanishing from the exhibit. 

Hisstory encircled Ruslan territorially, whose hands on the dulcified snake’s scales divulged the exotic characters.

 “Copasetic introduction!” exclaimed Kyle.

Dov admitted, “Can’t top that salute. I misjudged you, Ruslan. You weren’t stalling. This may rival the marks.”

Ruslan didn’t respond. His tried and true world had crumbled. At the same time his cavalier hands reached out to Hisstory, they hung perilously onto the slender thread of sanity held out by the force of faith.

Stafford promptly returned, accompanied by Svetana packing a scanner. He guided her to document the lambent images emerging from Ruslan’s touch prior to fading.

Notified by Stafford, Theogen joined the confreres in the museum director’s office, a subdued serpent adorning Ruslan. After bolting the door, Stafford hastily projected the symbols on the walls. While Svetana poured a blue hydrate into frosted glasses on a silver tray, Stafford produced two extant manuscripts from his safe. Trembling from their weight, he placed them on the conference table with a thud.

“Time for a real education. Thor chose his friends well, and I include Hisstory in that select club. Her trust in us may retrieve helpful fragments missing from the puzzle.”

“Excluding me,” asseverated Ruslan. “I’m a doubter, not a friend. I didn’t accept, but constantly quarreled.”  

“Your passion for verity compels you to complain, but when you do, you go against the grain. This planet fosters complacency. When people fear, they stick and steer to the status quo. I admire your courage to dare.”

“You err. I do adhere to the status quo, and I goaded Thor to do the same.”

“Strange status quo. You play the devil’s advocate, the role of a tester, while ensconced in a wise serpent who trusted you, the doubter, with these ciphers. You think Thor would have it otherwise?”

Feeling Hisstory’s grip tighten, Ruslan came to a corrigible crossroads. Seeking to steady his wobbly path, he stroked the constrictor ardently, conceding, “He wouldn’t.”   

“Then forgo your unwarranted guilt, and let’s get busy cracking this code.”

Theogen asked, “You’re familiar with the symbols?”

“You’ve heard of Atlantis?”

The three youths chimed.  

“The legend?”

“The myth?”

“The fable?”

Stafford chortled, “The cover-up.” 

“Atlantis is a folk tale, nothing more,” retorted Ruslan.    

“Balderdash. Cover-ups are widespread throughout the universe.  Not all manuscripts were burned in the fires of Alexandria. These are the scarcest in my gleanings. My father’s hobby was old-world dialects. Most antiquities I inherited from him. Some I bought from private parties, who heard about his magnificent collection and inquired if I desired additions. They wouldn’t have parted with them so readily had they realized my penchant was greater than my dad’s.”

Theogen was stunned. “The symbols on Hisstory relate to Atlantis?”

Stafford opened the largest manuscript, flipped a few illuminated sheets and pointed to a gold leaf rubric at the top of a page. “There. See for yourself.”

The inscription matched a scan on the nearby wall. The room buzzed with enthusiasm.

“Not so fast,” Stafford expounded. “Identification isn’t the foremost task; tricky is the interpretation ruled by the sequence.”

Svetana sat quiescent as the males perused the pages, comparing corresponding graphics and organizing the equivalents. When the hydrates emptied, she smoothed her rumpled skirt before rising to refresh them. Ruslan gaped unabashed. She blushed at his automatic boyish distraction. Dov and Kyle snickered when he reddened.

Theogen and the boys combed the copious antiquities for hours. Stafford compiled orderly notes. Svetana supplied nourishment. Dusk had descended when Stafford poised his inscriber.

“I’ve deciphered the symbols. We can dispense with the manuscripts.” He locked the books in his safe and addressed the expectant colleagues. “Deciphered, but garbled. The translation makes no sense.” 

“Read it,” said Theogen.

Stafford recited, “A curse to all, beware of one, no hands can grasp the future sun.” He threw down the tablet, exhausted, “I’ve lost my touch. I’m missing something, but I don’t know what.”

“Does it always rhyme?” asked Dov.

“Yes.” 

Kyle suggested, “How about switching the words? No hands can grasp the curse of one, to all beware a future sun.” 

“Clever transposition, Kyle, but what does that mean?” queried Ruslan.

“A future sun, grasping hands and a curse, but the message is opaque. How to make it transparent to aid Thor?” contemplated Theogen.

They sat stumped in silence. 

“Reverse the order,” piped up the impromptu female voice.

“What?”

The chorale of males converged on the diffident damsel who hadn’t spoken a prior word. She averted her eyes from their limelight.

Stafford encouraged, “Please elucidate.”

She cowered in the corner. “Crowds intimidate me.”

“You’re among friends, Svetana, with one purpose. Thor coached you to voice your opinion, didn’t he?”

“Always.”

“Pretend only he is here.”

“My wish for plausible can’t airbrush his coma.”

“Then coax your voice to speak up for him.”

Hisstory hissed. Svetana reluctantly came forward, timidly caressing the ataractic reptile to buttress her aplomb. Hisses became purrs as she studied the vignettes on the walls, starting her speech in a whisper.  

“The symbols have specific meanings?”

“No. They change, depending on the sequence.” 

She pointed, “This was the sequence on Hisstory’s body?” 

“Yes.”

“How did you determine the viewpoint? What were your criteria?”

“Viewpoint?”

“The angle. Why are the symbols meant to be viewed that particular way?”

“There’s another?”

Her honeyed timbre amplified. “Are we a select club of fixtures? We’re not stationary; we move, as does Hisstory.” Confronted by obtuse expressions, she snapped her fingers to beckon the boa, who uncoiled Ruslan and twined her shapely figure. “Don’t you see? Her lines decorating me are converse to Ruslan’s. Moreover, the sequence would vary if viewed overhead or if she were transiting a tree trunk. Symbols would alter appearance in a plurality of possibilities. I’d say interpretations are plentiful.” 

  Pierced by her wisdom, the transfixed males were energized. Germinal buds of spring melted the exuberant colts. Out came the manuscripts from the safe. Slates were distributed. Throughout the night, scans were rearranged in logical fashion repeatedly. The reptile rounded the room of the mental marathon with equanimity, spiraling Ruslan abstractedly doodling until his perception dimmed to shuttered lids. A voice knocked at his nap.

Right.

Not right. I was wrong, he contravened in his slumber.

Write! Write with your hand.

“Ruslan!” Theogen called.

The derelict dozer sprang to attention, ashamed. “Sorry I faded.”

“What have you written?”

“Scribbles,” he muttered, embarrassed.

Stafford joined with Theogen. “Show us.”

His infantile act arrested, he glanced past his silly scrabbles to the unfamiliar territory of alien calligraphy. Not his habitual scrawl, the persnickety letters were composed by a connoisseur of the art.

The teen twitched, tussling for his bearings, “Not mine.” 

“Generated as you drifted, eyes closed,” explicated Theogen.

Perpetually priding himself on normalcy, Ruslan refuted, “Ridiculous. Stuff like that doesn’t happen.”

“May we see?” Svetana’s therapeutic tone dulled his scuffle. Liberating his slate, she orated, “When hands of many linked by love from a future sun grasp the one, the curse will be broken, the spell undone.”

Through the thickness of the stillness sliced the sibilance of the serpent, applauding the translation that surfaced via the doubter at four in the morn.

“We have a prophecy approved by Hisstory,” cogitated Stafford. “Grasp the one. Hmm, we may have a conduit in our presence.”   

Overt was Ruslan’s revulsion, explicit his rejection, “Not me, whatever that is.”

Stafford clarified, “I wasn’t speaking of you, but of the one held in high esteem by Thor, the one who risked death to be touched today, enabling the symbols to manifest. The one encompassing you is the conduit.”

Eyes darted to Hisstory.

“For certain she’s intricately tied to the divination,” reckoned Theogen.

“More than intricate, she’s intrinsic,” attested Stafford.

Ruslan tottered, “Are you saying she’s the one cited in the prophecy?”

“I suspect she is. If our interpretation is accurate, her ample ability to channel energy may break a curse and undo a spell. I daresay she’s the lynchpin.”

“Crazy talk, certifiable.”

“Crazy talk indeed!” exclaimed Theogen. “Did we stumble onto the profound provenance of the prophecy by accident? Or were you, the doubter, ordained as the deliverer when the cold light of implicit reason is applied?” 

“I’d have argued yesterday.”

“And today?”

Ruslan raised his chin to surmount his chagrin. “I’m open to listen.” 

“Kudos,” clapped Theogen. 

 Stafford took note of the friends’ formal impatience. “Let’s get cooking. No need to raise hands, lads. We’re a motley crew of unstarched manner, not ponderous, prim and proper. Jump in at will. The floor is yours to speak your mind.”

“What curse?” queried Dov.

“What spell?” piggybacked Kyle.

Stafford mused, “One step at a time. I wager more actors will emerge with nuanced roles to unravel this riddle in due course.”  

“Players predicate a platform. We stage a rally,” suggested Ruslan.

Theogen boomed, “A show of support. Brilliant!”

Rubbing his palms together, Stafford chimed, “Excellent chess move! Now we’re down to the nitty-gritty details.”

Svetana slipped away to the employee lounge for fortifications. She saw the reflection when she closed the refrigerator. 

“May I help?” offered Ruslan. 

“Get back there. You’ll be missed.”

“So will you. We’ll be quicker if we work together.”

Trained on her dexterous fingers, Ruslan admired her manicured nails as they sorted snacks on the tray alongside the cold pitcher of liquid. Her subtle scent was intoxicating at close range, as was the floral fragrance of her stylish shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair.   

“Pretty wild in there,” he commented.

“In what way?”

“Atlantis, conduits, prophesies.”

“A typical day in the life of a museum. Hisstory may be the one, but you’re the lucky one.”  

“How so?”

“She chose you to reveal the prophecy.”

“Who did?”

“Hisstory, of course. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“If it had been me, I would have been honored.”

“Seriously?”

“To be a serving force in a defining moment of mankind? How many people get that opportunity?”

“What defining moment of mankind?”

“A hunch of mine. Don’t reject who you are, Ruslan.”

“I don’t know who I am.”

“We learn if we’re receptive. That’s what Thor taught me by his example. Accept, don’t fear, nascent traits that appear. We shouldn’t be repulsed by differences.”

“They entice you?”

“I revel in them. What’s alluring about the aficionado of the lukewarm lame, a gourmet of the tedious tame, an epicure of the tepid trite?”

“Safe is not attractive to you?”

“I’m not a fan of the hackneyed hymn that hungers to hug the homogenized hype. I treasure working here, because we don’t gaslight; we transcend the tripe. You relish the conventional, because it’s safe.  Yet here you are, the only one that’s unconventional, because the norm has altered.”

“It has?  Explain.” 

“The tables have turned. You are amidst talk of Atlantis, conduits, prophecies. That is the current convention, which you oppose, failing to perceive the principal point.”

“Which is?”

“The respect you receive by the rest for your differences.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“See through filters with clarity.”

“I listen to learn. Your turn, Ruslan.”

“Fair enough.”

“Accept the premise that we are the orthodox.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Then try this on and see if it fits. Thor’s a warrior, a relentless one at that, a mouthpiece to no one and an avatar for all, cradled in the cosmos, yet incarcerated by a macabre muting heterodoxy. That’s the spell in the prophecy.”

“Intriguing. Go on.”

“Educators are trained to teach an orthodoxy of don’t overreach. Put on your bailiwick doubter’s cap and flout that flattening precept. Throw conventional wisdom out the window.”

“To accomplish what?”

“Emancipate him.”

“How’s that?”

“Substitute your traditional bathe in bracing bromides by a dicey lather branched out from vanguard lashes. If you then digest the strange brew gutting Thor, how do you propose to remedy it?”

Ruslan paused, circumspect. “Swallow an odder antidote.”

Her vivacious smile blindsided him. “Bingo. There you go, being laudable. So tell me true, why did you seek me out in here? What’s bothering you?”

“You don’t want to hear it. No one does.”

Puckering her cherry lips, she brushed her sultry fingertips through his hair. “I do.”

“You’ll think I’m a jerk.”

“Others wear their heart on their sleeve; you wear your mind on yours. Candor is not the sign of a jerk nor the trademark of a scoundrel, because you have the panache to provoke thought unsanctified by snobbery. Unload your troubles. What chafes you?  Be blunt. Is it your tie to the serpent? You must have felt something when the symbols appeared, when the prophecy was disclosed.”

“So what? My admission is an exercise in futility. I mourn for Thor, but grieve all I like, he’s not coming back. Even if he did, he wouldn’t be the same. I heard the prognosis. A severe stroke has severe consequences, a miasma of irreversible damage. It’s better for him not to return. I’m a realist, Svetana. Miracles are the quantum leaps of myopic dreams. Thor’s a mere mortal, whatever avatar he seems. Though I’m touched by this ballyhoo, I stick to the concrete, not a nebulous notion. Am I accursed to be grounded in logic?”

Would she smack his cheek? He held his breath as she took him in her arms. While the oozing pain Ruslan struggled to contain swept her inhibitions away, Svetana poured the tasty tonic of her velvety voice into his vulnerable ear, slewing his guard.

“Don’t you think that occurred to Theogen when he discounted the doctors? Why strain to combat this spell so Thor will rouse, bespoken as a vegetable?  Scale back a bit. Imbibe the nectar of nebulous notions. There’s more to mankind than meets the eye. Tacit is the faith you’re toiling to find on the rocky road of your arduous tread.”

Prejudiced not by a semblance of pride, but persuaded by the practice of humility, Ruslan pressed to process every prophylactic word, the perspiration patent on his forehead as parts of him swooned while others hardened in her dazzling embrace.

Dov elbowed Kyle at the return of the two toting refreshments. Ruslan sank into his chair with the snuggling snake, while Svetana retired to the background.    

Stafford updated the duo.

“If the prophecy dates from Atlantis, ours would be a future sun.”

“If Hisstory is a conduit, people must have contact with her. How do we establish that?” expressed Dov.

“We grasp hands. That’s what the prophecy says, hands of many grasp the one. It doesn’t matter if the contact is direct or indirect as long as we’re all connected,” Kyle ruminated.

Theogen supplemented, “We form circles of hands, so the entire throng is attached to Hisstory simultaneously.”

“What if the multitude is immense?” asked Svetana. “Circles of hands won’t work, if masses are squished together.”

“You think that many will come on such short notice?” questioned Ruslan.

“Girl scouts prepare for all eventualities. Boy scouts don’t?”   

“She’s right,” Stafford summated. “We link hands as best we can. Hands of many linked by love. Love is foremost in the prophecy, the message to convey to the crowd.”

“We’ll convene where?” asked Ruslan.

Dov proposed, “The garden at the Institute. Tributes left by the public have already tagged it a shrine.”

Kyle was ebullient. “An assembly for Thor with decorations galore.”

Theogen pronounced, “We broadcast by word of mouth.”

Stafford confirmed, “No publicity, no posters. Svetana and I will spread the news through the Museum and outlying community.” 

Theogen embellished, “The boys and I will hit the Institute and neighborhood. It shouldn’t take long to get the word out.”

Hisstory tightened. Ruslan saw an image. “Have you discussed the rally leader to relay the message?”

Stafford answered, “We haven’t. Suggestions?”

Ruslan proclaimed, “Worthy of that honor is Svetana.”  

Affirmatives rebounded through the stentorian sibilance of the snake.

Deterred by a tonnage of baggage, Svetana spluttered,  “An oxymoron. How am I worthy of an honor I can’t perform?”    

Undaunted by her wall of perturbation, Ruslan remained resolute. “The one and we disagree. Your voice will captivate the crowd; your heart will deliver the message. It’s self-evident.”

“Not to me. I’m not capable of that feat.”

“Accept, don’t fear, nascent traits that appear.”

“Unfair to pin me to your parrot. No nascent trait has appeared.”  

“You have a turquoise dress threaded with silver leaves and a double strand of white pearls with matching earrings?”

Glints of a new day broke through the outside darkness. She blushed. Did he cognize she had matching underwear? Her gray globes of exasperation softened in awe. “How could you know that?”

Ruslan was unfazed by the stir of interest piqued. “A hunch. Wear them. You’ll be radiant.”

Back at the orphanage, the three boys prepared to rest.

“What happened when you were alone with her?” inquired Dov.

“Nothing happened, nitwit. I helped with refreshments.”

“Something happened. You looked flushed when you returned. Did you kiss her?” queried Kyle.

“Kiss her?” Ruslan aimed a pillow at Kyle. “Not a chance, simpleton. She scolded me for my stance,” he fibbed, defensive.

Dov pelted a pillow at Ruslan. “Sure she did, dolt. How dense can you be? It’s called flirting. Beats me what girls find appealing. I can’t figure them out, but if you’re smart, you’ll stop slobbering and pay attention to her signals.”