THE EYE OF THE CROW
Twenty feet away on a desert rock the green bottle awaited its demise. Scattered fragments of glass around the rock wear fallen comrades, that fell to my fathers handgun, shattering prowess. My fathers demonstration was over soon and now it was my turn. My father handed me the hand gun. For a ten-year-old the toy was heavy, I finally found the balance, aligning the sites with the bottle I pulled the trigger. The toy exploded, the recoil jerked my arm straight up. A wave of energy vibrated every molecule in my body, as it passed through me yes! Yes! Now this was a toy worth having. A sense of power overwhelmed me. I was no longer a puny being. I could now look up at the world and proclaim my existence with a bang. The bottle waited patiently. I aimed to the right of the bottle and slightly down grounding myself I fired. I hit the rock. The bottle stared back at me in defiance, and smiled; I compensated once more for the recoil, and fired. The bottle swayed but remained standing. Eleven shots later the bottle smiled no more.
One week later my father brought home my long awaited toy, a German Berno air rifle. This toy was not as impressive as his toy, and the bang left much to be desired. What this toy lacked in bang, it made up in accuracy. I could now be stealth, and hunt accurately. Loading the toy was a chore; one had to break the barrel down and pump. in the other the food. Toy food came in two varieties, small lead pellets that were cheep or a fine plumed dart. Plumed darts became my ammunition of choice.
My father Encouraged me to hunt birds, he loved small birds especially small sparrows, so they became my first target. My father found them a rear delighted and enjoyed eating them . Our chef would marinate the birds, skew them and roast them on an open fire. My father would then place the entire bird in his mouth chew it slowly, savoring the juices, he would then spit out the bony carcass. With this kind of encouragement, the sparrow population count in our woods began to drop. Cats became great sport, hunting cats required stealth, and patience. Safari hat on I would stalk them, like some big game hunter in Africa. The chef had no recipe for cat, so cat was never on the menu.
Across from our house a tall structure was being erected. Standing atop this structure were two workmen working away. I set on the edge of the pool my feet dangling in the water. Berno at my side loaded and ready for action I contemplated my boredom, I needed a more challenging target. the cats had become easy kills and no longer challenging. The workman from above started Jeering they interrupted my mediation. Looking up I saw the two workmen waiving their hands and whistling. Looking to the left I saw my sister approaching in a bikini. Calmly I picked up Berno, and aimed at the dancing barbarian high up in the scaffolding, I fired. I heard a whimpering sound, the barbaric dance stopped and the men started to make their way down the scaffolding. My prized dart was returning to me, how fortuitous. Having to disturb my father's afternoon siesta in order for him to confront my deed was not cheering. I sent the maid to awaken him.
I proceeded to the front door, and awaited my father. My father soon arrived, I looked up and saw annoyance in his eyes, and I looked down. The inevitable knock on the door happened. The butler opened the door. The barbarians stood there, they suddenly became very animated, pointing at me and screaming, your son has shot me. The man opened his shirt, and two inches down from his navel; my plumage betrayed me. There was no denying this deed. My father reached over and plucked the evidence from is stomach. He handed me the dart, reached into his dressing gown pocket and pulled out his wallet, extracting a fifty-toman note, he handed it to the barbarian. The barbarian smiled took the note and looked at me, he pointed at another spot on his stomach and smiled. The butler shut the door. My father looked at me and smiled, " shooting barbarians can be expensive, please stick to the birds." He turned around and, went back to finish his siesta.
It was a gloomy afternoon, it was siesta time once more, and all were asleep, except me. The house and the woods were silent. The silence seemed Erie and felt foreboding. I was sitting at a table on the porch, having just cleaned all of Bernos parts I was in the process of reassembling him. A crow flew closely over my head, and perched itself on a tall tree close to the pool. The bird let out a single scream shattering the silence. I opened a new box of pellets and loaded Berno, aiming at the crow and fired. I heard a thud and saw a feather ruffle. The crow did not move or speak. I reloaded Berno, and fired once more, another thud, and another ruffling of feathers, and still no fall. I walked over to the tree, and looked up at this immortal bird. I was adamant; this bird would die this day. I pumped endless pellets in to this crow that would not die. My stock of cheep Berno food was approaching depletion. As I paused to ponder and reload I heard a rustling of leaves, looking up I saw the now mortal bird come crashing through the branches. The crow lay at my feet, head cocked to one side it looked at me in bewilderment and wonderment. I looked back and for the first time saw a being, and not just dinner for my father. The eye looked at me questionably, it questioned me and wanted to know why? I suddenly remembered the bottle on the rock at its smile, now I understood why it was smiling. I looked into that eye for a long time. I watched his life force slowly diminish in anguish . He begged me for the " coup de gras" I loaded Berno with my finest plumed dart and silenced him. I closed my tin of beautiful plumed darts, and never opened it again. Berno went silent forever.