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A MIRACULOUS JOURNEY WITH THOR AND HISSTORY — CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The enigmatic aura of the thirteen-year-old lying helpless as a hostage in the hospital cast a net far and wide. Speculation surrounded his stroke. The fortunate few who had seen him with Hisstory told tales about his fearlessness. His woeful plight plied hearts to hear. No one could have guessed the orbit he possessed.
“Hey, sis. Change of plan. A boy’s in a coma. There’s a rally for him. I’ll come a day later.” The chipper voice of Nolana Raddage bypassed her gritted teeth, gearing up for the unpleasant volley.
“You know him?” Edie’s vulgar voice slashed through sister social pleasantries.
“I know about him.”
“Not the same. His family?”
“He’s an orphan.”
“We always meet up on my birthday, our tradition, never been broken. How refreshing you’ve got your priorities in order after all these years to rank an unknown orphan above your sister.”
“C’mon, Edie. I’m the one flying. You never do.”
“You renege for a stranger, then attack my fear of flying? What a low blow.”
“That’s not my intent.”
“Apology accepted. Let’s solve this asinine dispute. Request they change the date. See? Simple solution.”
“I’ve already changed the flight. That’s the simple solution, and it’s done. Edie? Edie?”
“She disconnected?”
Nolana pivoted to her husband Derschel. “She thinks the world revolves around her.”
“I’ll vouch for that, though you rarely stand up to her. Why this rally? What motivated you?”
“An impulse.”
“That intense.”
“Overpowering.”
* * *
The cloaked figure passed Derschel Raddage on the way to the manager’s office. Derschel shuddered, not because of the absence of the required security badge. He couldn’t tell the gender of the prominent person, but the pungent power exuded was extreme. Derschel eyed the glass window, troubled by his trembling, but the foreboding figure left after brief minutes. On the heels of the departure, the manager addressed the crew.
“Everyone’s dismissed tonight with full pay. You are free to do as you please. If you wish to attend the rally for the comatose boy, lifts are outside to take you there and afterward return you to your individual vehicles. Auto-parking is miles away, as the vicinity is jammed. If you elect to go home, you may do so. The choice is yours.”
Derschel boarded the offered transport with the whole astonished night shift. He approached the site, not expecting to find his family. Amid the sea of souls, a shaft of the setting sun hit one.
Nolana arrived at the rally before sunset with her seven-year-old daughter, Rakiya, and nine-year-old son, Andal, in tow.
“Ooh, pretty,” gurgled Rakiya at the festive luminance sprinkling the glistering garden.
Nolana took a preemptive step. “We stick together. No running off to explore. Understood?”
“Yes, mama,” responded her progeny.
The ground swell of supporters packed the area, overflowing into the trotting track. A path cleared when Ruslan appeared entwined with Hisstory, trailed by Svetana, Dov, Kyle, Theogen, Stafford, and Dayerlin. Amiry, wheeled by Poncil Klaverstan, led the retinue of teachers and staff both of the Institute and the Museum; Olvirette Fromquist led the duo board of directors.
Nolana, flanked by Rakiya and Andal, gripped their hands as they backed up swiftly to make way for the entourage, colliding with a boy behind them.
“Excuse us,” apologized Nolana. “That was a snake, close and large.”
“Thor’s pet,” Calvin Billafort explained, having witnessed this usual reaction to Hisstory on previous occasions.
“His pet? Wow! Mom?” Andal, impressed, gazed at his mother. She knew that quizzical expression and had no intention of adopting a snake as a member of her household.
Svetana stepped up to the podium on the makeshift platform, hushing the group plus saving Nolana from a lengthy debate with her son.
“Nolana!”
Nolana gaped as Derschel strode toward her. “How?”
He took Rakiya’s hand. “Providence.”
Svetana heard and smiled before facing the mass in the twilight.
“Thank you for coming. This is neither a requiem nor a vigil; we are not gathered to grieve. Thor Tayson’s in a coma, but he’s not dead.”
Although her amplified voice resonated as she continued her rehearsed speech, Svetana faltered, plastered by the stimulating pathos of the colossal crowd. She gestured to Ruslan, but the mastermind serpent hissed to cease his assist. Cued was the exuberant roll of snare drum bees, oboes of owls, clarinets of cuckoos, violins of cicadas, flutes of finches, harps of crickets, French horn falcons, and the trumpet tirade of skylarks. Piccolo pigeons punctuated their serenade of coos. Chimed in the cellos, bassoons, trombones, and tubas of the bucolic bolsters of orchestral nature. Grew the tambourine tune of behemoth butterflies, their phosphorescent wings defying the dusk in descent. Not to be outdone, iconic iridescent hummingbirds flew toward a fantasia crescendo. Into the majestic mix of mother earth’s myriad light and sound, fluttering fireflies volleyed their sparkling weight around. Back and forth the airborne flapped the expanse of human radiance; blithe hearts beat the timbre of timpani cadence.
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Discarding her script with a carefree laugh, Svetana glanced at the consummate conductor, whose tail baton twitched to switch the dazzling display to diminuendo in deference to the solo soprano. Above the glissando in mesmeric rapture rose her full-throated mellifluous melody, intoned ad lib, her lilt flirtatious, her glee contagious.
“Witness nature’s extravaganza elevating our spirits. What a cocoon this bounteous boon enhancing our senses. Come ye hither its beatific broth to foretaste. Herald the descent from supernal skies droves of breathtaking butterflies. Smell the perfume of the redolent roses in bloom. Hear the hum of the opening heavens, astir in the symphony of the spheres. Thor’s with us, embodied in this glorious garden. How profound are his light and sound. Hear him. He is not silenced. See him. He is not erased. Feel his elemental presence. Behold his ethereal quixotic essence. He floats on the wings of the frolicking fliers, croons with the buttress of musical birds, buzzes with the beneficent bees, and pulsates within our rhythmic hearts. How can that be? Because we have a common denominator. We are seamed by our love of humanity, that pure flowing verve of life which I’ve heard him express time and again. No, we are not gathered to mourn him; we are bridged by veneration for him and the celebration of creation, whatever form it takes, be it human or flora or fauna, from the minute to the mammoth. Let’s manifest our gratitude. Reach out. Clasp the hands of your neighbors. Include everyone. Prevent gaps. If you can, form circles. Yes, that’s it. Keep going. Expand our bonds to ensure we are all tied by touch. Oh, look! They’re joining us. Benevolent butterflies alight on our shoulders, crown our heads, to delight our dreams when asleep in our beds. How grand is that!”
“I’ve never felt so alive,” Nolana remarked to Derschel.
“Or resplendent,” he underscored.
“It’s delicious. I don’t want to leave this place. May we live here?” enthralled Rakiya asked.
“We do live here, honey,” Nolana replied.
Rakiya accepted the cryptic reply without question.
The omnibus bundle was an awesome sight, flowing from the lustrous garden to the race track and beyond. Svetana scanned the enravished throng without a doubt. With fervor palpable, not one had deigned to be left out of the link. No tinge of sadness could she detect by any metric she could apply. Her vision foreseen by Ruslan flanking her had not been a lie. She grasped his hand, which lay atop Hisstory, and Stafford’s on her other side, completing the chain.
“Let’s close our eyes. Go within. See the inner light. Hear the inner sound. Come inside the abounding hum of the heavens. We are all connected on this globe. Dwell on that bond. Feel the love that cradles us with compassion for each other. Let it flow out your hands into the hands and hearts of your neighbors. Hail the cosmos and invoke the esprit of Thor, who is within us and we within him. Awake, Thor! See our light. Hear our sound. Bathe in our union. Arise to greet us.”
Flooding the congregation simultaneously was the supreme energy that momentarily vanquished thought, pure absolute bliss. Hisstory’s body glowed incandescent; her lucence spread to the melded confluence. No one saw with all eyes shut, not even the spies sent by the State. Every being in that emblazoned chain shimmered from the divine merger disintegrating boundaries. Spotlighted in their minds was the benighted boy in a coma. He was infinite as were they in a mystical bond of blossoming beatitude as unbreakable as the vibration of the heavens, the force of that frequency which kindles life and sustains the universe. From the twinkling stars to the glimmering grass, thoughts of Thor throbbed through everything. Swelling with adoration, catapulted hearts generated sparks which radiated into a tsunami of passion, heightened by the spirits of light who had been transformed by an inner sight. Eyes opened together, messaging other eyes in a velocity of unspoken tongue. Ascending swarms of butterflies patterned the confetti skies in a flapping flurry of shiny wings, departing in disparate directions under the gibbous moon. Though quietly the populace returned home, no one in the nexus of that phenomenal dominion was ever the same.
* * *
The synergetic sextet approached the check-in window at Clatterly Hospital. Night staff recognized the eminent gentlemen, ogled the trim trendy female, and paid no heed to the three pedestrian boys. Overlooked was the bulging coat of Stafford Klingshire, until a sudden undulation caught the attention of one guard, who eyed it suspiciously.
Svetana sensuously gyrated out of her chic jacket, her hypnotic voice and motion like a magnet to the males, distracting the suspicious guard. “Help me, Russ. It’s a bit tight.”
One wiggle smothered another.
Posted Theogen outside Thor’s room, permitting the troupe uninterrupted privacy. Stafford drew the shades over the inner window facing the nurses’ station, and the exterior window. A glimpse inside the seventh floor location was unlikely, but Stafford was not taking chances.
The contraband cobra unraveled Stafford and wound her way toward Thor. He appeared weightless, a wisp of a frothy feather as she tunneled tortuously under and around him without disturbing the multifarious attachments to his patulous life supports. Her caressing hiss of undeniable devotion turned into a constant hum, her energized body a glittering vibration that mushroomed to Thor, whose pores lapped up the celestial ambrosia like a sponge. Her forked tongue dove beneath his eyelids, tenderly licking his orbs with a diaphanous incandescent secretion, the consistency reminiscent of the juice of the aloe veroe plant. Immersed and bound, woven round was his gilded body synthesized with serpentine light and sound as the smuggled serpent of serendipity sinuously swirled her incantation, skin against skin fueling a feverish friction of fusion. The advent of unparalleled symbiosis was startling, but the dyadic dynamics were nevertheless expected.
Ruslan blanched. The rest turned to him, but he shook his head. The curse will be broken, he thought, the curse of the State. Thor’s stigmata, the repressive republic’s brands of bondage, were vanishing from his chiffon skin. A markedly satisfied snake burrowed under Stafford’s coat. Blinds were lifted. The status quo resumed. Theogen joined the concise coterie standing sentinel until dawn.
Helming his rounders at five o’clock, Dr. Moshamp marched into the room, prepared to tell Theogen to call it quits. Irrefutable charts detailed his patient succumbing to sepsis. Backed by a full arsenal at his disposal legally obtained to fire at will, the doctor planned to exercise his superior agency over Theogen to nail shut the coffin.
“This can’t be correct,” he blurted out, arrested by the vital signs on display. “He’s contracted double pneumonia, but he’s not relying on the ventilator; he’s breathing on his own.”
He shifted from the stunned faces of his team to those blank on the vigilant visitors. Thor yawned. The soft sound pealed in the quietude, drawing the attention of all.
“Thor, squeeze my hand,” he commanded, grabbing Thor’s.
A crackle resounded. Abruptly releasing Thor’s hand, Dr. Moshamp rubbed his own in reflexive retreat, his features betraying no hint of surprise at the force of the current he felt.
As bright rays of the rising sun streaked across his pallid visage, Thor’s eyes fluttered open, his irises dramatically deepened in their vibrant pools of verdure. Where was he? Confused by a quizzical audience staring down at him in the clinical foreground, he transited in alarm to the friendly axis beyond. Settling on something sensationally odd, his panic subsided. From under Stafford’s overcoat poked a minute rainbow head with a flicking forked tongue. Thor relaxed in a smile and closed his lids. Surely he was still dreaming.
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