Almost a year ago it had happened, at the beginning of early light as Thor dozed tiredly beneath a thick overhang of rock, forgetful of his watch, a small fire kindled at his feet. Coming with strangely quiet steps up the mountain path, the man had surprised him. Almost before Thor could open his eyes, the man was poised, motionless, close beside him.
Shaggy red hair frosted with night, large frame cloaked in his white bearskin, Thor had risen titanically to his feet, towering a high head and shoulders over the man who had, at first, seemed as startled as Thor himself.
Silent, they stood face to face in the harsh white light. Thor had waited, grim and even embarrassed that his hiding place had been discovered. He had not known what to say, or what to expect.
Calmly the man had glanced at Thor's sleeping bag and the large, scoped rifle laid to the side. Then he had focused again on Thor, taking his time. Finally he turned his head to look down over the installation, nodding at the view.
“Doing some hunting?” he had asked, not seeming to notice, or care, about Thor's discomfort.
And it was in that moment that Thor had measured the spirit before him, had somehow sensed that indefinable quickening that fast-joined the hearts of good men, that mysterious force that forged friends in the chaos of war or brought strangers together in strange lands as each somehow knew and understood the other with little more than a glance. And Thor had decided that the man commanded a solid heart, possessed a soul as discerning and knowing as his own.
“Yes,” Thor replied, also smiling, gazing down on the man from his gigantic height. “I hunt here often.”
Nodding, the man extended his hand. “Yeah, well, as far as I’m concerned, you can hunt any place you want. They don't own this island. They just own what's inside the fence.”
Thor had laughed, warmed.
“Connor,” the man had said. His name was Jackson Connor.
Compared to Thor's mythic height and stature, Connor was as nothing. But in truth he was of average height and build. And he carried himself with a quiet solidness, like a man who has survived hard years by the strength of his back and will. His smooth-shaven face was brown-weathered, leathered by the freezing wind. But his most prominent feature was the solid, craggy edges of his chin, forehead, and jaw—edges that seemed to reflect a hardened attitude to everything around him.
At times, Thor could easily see him as suspicious, unfriendly, and even hating of the world. But Thor could also see him as someone who simply wanted a bitter world to be different, but had learned he could not change it so had crusted himself over with a bitter armor instead. Thor knew, almost from the first, that the man was something else inside, something softer and more understanding and somehow far gentler than his hardened exterior would ever reveal. Even as he, himself, was.
He had a wife and a son, he said, answering Thor's questions, which grew friendlier and more intimate as an hour of easy conversation passed. And yes, he said, they lived in one of the homes inside the installation. His son, Jordan, was four years old, he said in a proud father's voice that told Thor even more. His wife's name was Beth, and his eyes grew soft and comfortable as he mentioned her. She also was employed by Stygian Enterprises, as a civilian supervisor of the groundside Communications Center.
“Come on down to the house,” Connor had said at the last, seeming to tire of the relentless, bracing wind that Thor rarely noticed anymore. “It's cold up here. And Beth will want to meet you.” He laughed. “If we're nice enough to her, she might even make us some coffee.”
Thor had glanced at the installation. “They will allow me inside the perimeter?”
“Yeah, they'll let you in,” Connor replied, not seeming to care about security. “I'll tell whoever's interested that you're cleared. The top part of the base isn't a big deal, anyway. It's just the underground section that's off-limits.” He shook his head, looking out over the Ice Station. “Yeah, they're doing some kind of research down there ...”
Thor focused on him. “I know this island, Connor. I have been here for many, many years. And I know this: There is nothing in that cavern but darkness.” He waited. “Nothing good can come from it.”
Connor had frowned before he shook his head. “Probably not, Thor.” He stared a moment, silent. “But those decisions are beyond my pay grade. I just work here.”
And so it began—a friendship where Thor would descend often from the mountain, bellowing greetings to the installation's ground personnel who seemed to relish their boring routines being broken by the appearance of this boisterous, gigantic Viking-shape with red hair and beard flowing and cloaked in a white bearskin. Eagerly welcomed inside to shatter the monotony, Thor would give children and women long rides around the compound on Tanngrisner's broad back, fearlessly and tunelessly singing Nordic dirges that carried without restraint to the far side of the perimeter. Eventually he would dramatically sweep out again into a long sunset, waving a dramatic, theatric farewell.