Black Eagle Dream

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IN THE DAYS OF CYRUS

BOOK II

Chapter Two

The indomitable hawaiian had rode the waves of the dark sea of death.

He had seen it. He had caused it.

Cyrus could smell death.

He dropped to one knee
unmoving,
listening intently
for life.
The odoriferous stench of rotting flesh wafed over the dunes that Cyrus had remained hidden behind. He had readily picked up their trail one day ago, spotting refuse they had carelessly discarded in the great desert. Cyrus guessed it to be the germans.
“Arrogant fools,” Cyrus said tiredly.
The black eagle had kept him adequately supplied with a larder of various creatures. For this was a landscape expressed
as living art, a living breathing virtuality.
His water bag was dangerously low, but he remained lucid.
Cyrus began to climb a large sand pyramid.

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He drew his Army issued
.45 caliber pistol.
Cyrus wrapped his face in an olive drab sling, but to no avail.
As he topped the dune, the prevailing winds of death nearly caused him to gag. Cyrus looked down into the clearing. It was quiet.

Death had painted a masterpiece.

Cyrus began his descent into hell.
He trained his weapon on everything, anything that might pose a threat.
A large raven called out to it’s companions who were at present gorging themselves on the
eyes of the fallen camels.
The ravens observed the black eagle flying high above, and immediately sensed an immeasurable flow of energy.
The esteemed trio of earthly messengers departed without their usual boisterous fanfare.
The black eagle dream surveyed the carnage from above.
Cyrus moved quietly from one body to the next. The three men hired in Rabat to guide the germans through the desert lay face down, all shot in the back. By the way their bodies lay it appeared they were running toward their camels.
The two small Fennec fox took their leave as well, carrying away flesh momentos as they ran,
their tails tilted in a terrified low.
The duo of large eared fox looked to the sky, running for all they were worth, fear streaking across their dark eyes. Cyrus approached a forth man who lay propped up against a palm tree.
Cyrus observed blood stains and bullet holes on the lower portion of the grey wool uniform of the lone german infantryman. His head hung forward, unmoving. His dark metal helmet lay near. Cyrus approached the man quietly pointing his pistol center mass at the fallen soldier. After several moments he holstered his weapon. Cyrus stood solemnly in front of the dead soldier.
The dead man’s head shot up abruptly as he attempted to strike Cyrus in the groin.
Cyrus reacted instinctively,
leaping back and then launching himself forward; delivering a devastating knee to the forehead of the veteran german soldier.
It was such a precise collision that his skull was fractured twice, as the back of his head had slammed violently against the immovable palm tree.
The dying soldier let out a dull bleat of unintelligible sound, his brain unable to process the level of damage that had been inflicted upon it. This transference of raw energy signaled the conclusion of this encounter.
The soldier babbled for several moments, first in german and then in english. The mortally concussed man looked up slowly at Cyrus through bleary eyes. “Brown man do you, do you speak english?”
The heavily accented man asked in a whisper. Cyrus nodded in the affirmative. “Do you seek someone?” asked the dying man.
The face of Cyrus suddenly grew taut. “Where is he?”
The dying german smiled weakly
as he pointed toward the chest of the massive hawaiian.
Cyrus looked down.
His medicine bag had come out from under his fatigue shirt.
The dying man now pointed with his eyes at another tree near to him.
Cyrus slowly looked away,
ever cautious.
The german soldier began to laugh,
a low mocking laugh. Cyrus turned slowly to where the man had pointed. Someone had impaled a knife into the tree. Notah’s medicine bag hung from the knife. The dying man continued to laugh weakly, gurgling now.
Cyrus approached the palm tree.
As he got closer he saw the finger. Cyrus took the medicine bag from off the knife handle. A bloody finger jutted out the small opening of the small leather bag. Cyrus slowly pulled the brown finger out. It was the left pinky finger of his friend. Cyrus could feel the burn growing inside his chest. The dying man continued to laugh his death song. Cyrus dropped the medicine bag and Notah’s finger turning abruptly toward the scornful laughter; reaching for his knife in one fluid movement.
Cyrus forcefully thrust the long knife through the man’s right eye. He did so with such force it caused the bayonet to pierce the back of the soldiers skull, lodging itself into the large date palm with a sickening thunk sound. “Ahhhhhhh.”
The large german let out his final breath. Cyrus placed his right hand on the man’s forehead as he wrenched the knife free from the tree with his left. Cyrus scraped the man’s eye off his bayonet. After retrieving the medicine bag and his friends appendage, Cyrus walked a short distance and sat atop a small outcropping of boulders and rock. The sun had set upon this ancient place. Cyrus sat drinking water, contemplating his next move.
After losing a portion of his map in a previous sand storm he was not sure what to do or what direction even to go. He was hungry,
he was thirsty, and he was exhausted.

If Notah was still alive…..
Cyrus had to think.
Whatever happened here demonstrated a major break down in communication.
Cyrus would search the bodies
for clues in the morning.
Tonight he would sleep among
the dead.
The black eagle continued to circle above Cyrus, as the stars shone brilliantly over this vast and wondrous land.
He built a fire and settled in for the night.
In the morning he would go.

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