A Novel by Kawika A. Stafford

Chapter 33

Throughout the storied chronicles of men, in every culture on the planet that has ever been, there are songs that people embraced for generations; and continue to do so to this day.

For Cyrus, his song was

singular

in its nature.

It’s added rarity supposed a category all of its own.

His song was the Black Eagle Dream; and the sound of the wind as it rushed up in his face, landing swiftly on the hand of the old Hawaiian man.

Cyrus had awoke early. He began a trek of short duration; however in his weakened state the dying man struggled to get up the hill. After reaching his destination he gathered himself, catching his breath.

Cyrus observed the sun blink its eyes as it rose over the edge of the mountains; preparing to offer another unconditional day of warmth and hope.

As Cyrus stood alone, he called out to the Black Eagle Dream.

In the canyon, the shadows held ancient songs of a time of the not so distant past.

Cyrus called through the ages, through the shadows,

calling to this unending song, for one final moment, together.

Cyrus called to the Black Eagle Dream, with all the fading strength he had left.

The old man’s heart cried out in anguish and in sorrow.

Cyrus knew that this would be the last time that he would call to his far sighted companion.

Cyrus was not afraid. He loved life. He waited, facing the canyon, straining as he searched the shadows with his fading eyes.

Without a sound, the large black eagle approached from behind flying low; so low, that it nearly made contact with the once powerful hawaiian.

The black eagle had never done that before.

Slowly it made a wide sweeping turn as it came down to sing its song to Cyrus one last time. Tears flowed down his soft leathered face. The black eagle landed. Its familial sounds were comforting in the ears of the old man.

Perhaps though, the black eagle had approached from an unfamiliar direction,

to remind him that death had indeed come to take his song away.

Be that as it may, this special song would play to it’s melodious, and mournful crescendo;

like thunder

in the ears of Cyrus Keali’iwahamana and the Black Eagle Dream.

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