IN THE DAYS OF CYRUS
Cyrus sat staring into the quiet fire. The flames flickered, as the sun began to gradually ascend over the horizon of the vast Sahara desert. He had made an uneasy decision to bury the three Moroccans late last night. Cyrus had located the identification papers and personal effects of each man, and so he decided to wrap their personal belongings in scarves that he found in the packs of their dead camels. He would leave it at this place, hoping someone would come in search of their loved ones. He offered up prayers in their behalf, and for his enemies as well. Cyrus currently enjoyed the luxury of a large cup of coffee. He had located additional food stuffs, water, and a large knife. He made the decision to forego much else as he would have to travel light and push hard to intercept the three men he presently pursued. The last thing he wanted was to bury his friend in this arid and seamless land. Conversely, Germany in the nineteen forties certainly was no place for a Code Talker from the Navajo Nation to be. Cyrus stood solemnly atop the dune, gazing out into the quiet empty once again. Cyrus knew he had but one last opportunity to retrieve his friend Notah. He deducted that the two germans were going to attempt to rendezvous on the west coast of North Africa. Cyrus adjusted the straps of his rucksack as he glanced over at the dead and decomposing body of the large german soldier. Cyrus would not bury him. He couldn’t afford to expend any more energy than he already had, that and Cyrus knew the massive german soldier had in all likelihood, beaten and tortured his friend. Nonetheless he gathered his personal effects and hung them on the same knife that had been used to seperate his friend from his finger. Cyrus had found a large indigo robe among the belongings of the muscular german soldier. Cyrus had seen the brillant blue robe in Morocco. He and Badr had been in the market place sharing a cup of tea when a fierce looking man in a blue robe had passed by. Badr related to him that the colorful blue robe was often wore by the Tuareg people.
Cyrus was weary of war. It was his kuleana, his responsibility to kill whoever needed killing, but in his heart he longed for his home shore break in Waipi’o Valley, in the valley of kings. Ravens began to call in the distance. Cyrus sat down next to the fire. He reached into the top pocket of his desert fatigues. Cyrus slowly opened the bloody cloth. He viewed the beaded and blood stained medicine bag, and his friends darkened and lifeless appendage. Cyrus held the string of the medicine bag on the first joint of his index finger. He slowly let it slide off his finger and into the fire.
“This Is the only part of you that will remain here my friend.”
Cyrus wrapped the blackened finger in the crimson cloth and placed it unceremoniously into the fire. The time of feeling desperate had passed. Cyrus looked to the west as he began looking for anything that resembled a path to follow. He found nothing. A large shadow cast itself upon the sand directly in front of Cyrus. The black eagle hovered effortlessly above him, causing Cyrus involuntarily to arch his neck up into the sky. The large, dark, keeper of dreams met the eyes of the powerful hawaiian. A pathway between the two began to emerge. Cyrus checked his weapons and adjusted his gear one last time as he prepared to hunt the men that had taken his friend. He slipped the brillant blue robe on over his gear, and after a few minor adjustments he began to strike out into the vastness. The black eagle continued to hover as Cyrus made his way over the dunes. After Cyrus had walked nearly a thousand meters, the black eagle, who presently was observing men from a great distance, dipped its wings and began to follow Cyrus. After a short span of time the black eagle casually overtook the man. As Cyrus continued over the dunes the shadow of the black eagle had become a beacon of sorts. Cyrus made a decision to follow the leading of this mysterious black eagle. As the formidable native hawaiian and the black eagle began to fade into the distance of this killing ground, three large and seemingly ominous ravens landed where Cyrus had sat. The largest of the three ravens began to cautiously walk down the short space leading to the fire that Cyrus had made earlier. The two other ravens soon followed. The ravens walked noiselessly, yet spaced themselves perfectly in distance, one from the other. They began to circle the fire clockwise. The ravens walked in a casual but calculated gait. The three ravens would occasionally give attention to the sizzling sounds heard emanating from the dying coals of the fire, clucking their approval as they walked in quiet contemplation of things yet to be. In the distance, Cyrus could see what appeared to be a sand storm in the making. He was not overly concerned as he had encountered several of these storms since his first tour of North Africa in 1941. Unbeknownst to him however, this was no ordinary sand storm. This was a storm of ecclesiastical proportions, a storm of life and of death. A storm of today, and tomorrow. The ravens continued to circle the dying fire.
Like the black eagle, the raven lives in two worlds, and as such has witnessed many things through the passage of time. The ravens continued to circle the fire. One thing was certain, in the desert nothing goes to waste; for even messengers must eat.
Copyright June 8, 2016
All Rights reserved.
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