Bright Eyes- Prologue

62 A.D.  
British Isles

     The young maiden slipped out of the village gates, a basket in her hands.  Several villagers lifted their heads from their various duties to watch her go. The elders shook their heads, small smiles playing at their mouths, and returned to their work.
     She was a pretty young woman, in her mid teens.  Her soft skin held a slight burnished color from the sun, and her hair was a cascade of smooth red ringlets that went down to the small of her back.  Her dress was simple cloth, nothing fancy.  But everyone knew she was different; maybe it was the way her emerald eyes sparkled in the light, the secrets they held but no one could decipher.
     The maiden left the dusty path and began to climb a hill that bordered on her valley.  She came to a cliff face, but instead of deterring her, the girl slipped an arm through the basket handle and scaled the rocks without hesitation.  Halfway up the cliff, the girl pulled herself into a cave and looked out over the valley that she called home.  At the opposite end of the basin, she could see the Roman legion's encampment.  She smiled, wondering if her soldier waited for her.  The only reason the village was on such good terms with the legion was the girl; she understood foreigners better than any of the others.  It was almost as if she knew Latin better than the local language.  In a way, she did.
      The teenage girl stood and walked to the back of the cave.  A small alter, a natural table of stone, waited for her.  She placed the incense she had bartered for at the camp on the table and lit it.  As the smoke spun around the cave, the girl gently caressed a small golden statue of an unnamed god- her secret…one of many.
     The maiden stood and walked back to the mouth of the cave.  The sky was an innocent blue, dotted with white clouds that left shadowy patterns on the green valley below.  It was a perfect day for flying.
     Without another thought, the girl leaped from the cave.  Brown and gold feathers began to grow from her outspread arms as she fell.


62 A.D.
Near Present Day Uganda

     The small hunting party marched in silence across the dry savannah.  It was comprised of four adult men, a young boy, and a tall teen-aged girl.  
The girl was different.  Whereas many women of her tribe kept their dark, curly hair short, the huntress had long, straight, almost silky black hair that was pulled back.  In the light, it had a light coating of cinnamon red.  The girl wore a leopard skin cloak and what appeared to be a black leather bikini, showing well-muscled limbs.  Green and blue war paint decorated the cocoa skin of her arms, legs, and face.  The girl was also nearly taller than her male companions, despite the fact that they were many years older than she.  She was the only one of the party that went unarmed.
     The young boy looked nervously at the older girl beside him, and shuddered when her stern, gold-colored eyes met his.  He continued walking in silence, staring almost guiltily at his feet.
     After some time, a herd of gazelle loomed in the distance.  The girl held up an arm, and the entire party stopped.  She nodded curtly, and the older men left to circle the far side of the herd.  Once they were in position, the girl removed her cloak and tossed it to the boy.  He watched, half in horror, half in fascination, as the girl crawled forward on all fours.  Just before she disappeared into the tall, yellowed grass, the boy could just make out the black spotted fur sprouting along her legs.


62 AD
In the Xiao Hinggan Ling Mountain Range, Northern China

     Several villagers worked in the terraced rice patties of the mountains.  Among them were a teenage girl and her twelve-year-old sister.
     The elder sister worked steadily, her dress tied above her knees to keep the material as dry as possible.  She loved the feeling of the cool water and the mud beneath her feet as she patiently worked the rice stalks loose from the ground.  Several men her own age watched her from the corners of their eyes.
     She was, indeed, beautiful.  Her skin had an even complexion the color of a porcelain doll, no matter how long she stood in the sun.  She was slightly taller than most women, and her long, raven hair danced even in the slightest breeze.
     The girl must have known the men were watching her, for she straightened up and turned to look at one, regarding him with rose-colored eyes.  The boy fumbled for a rice stalk, determined to seem busy, and almost fell into the muck.  The girl giggled softly, the sound like a shallow river burbling over the rocks.  The boy's  face flushed.
     The sun had begun to set.  The workers began whispering amongst themselves, turning to neighbors with cupped hands before their faces.  The rose-eyed girl smiled.  The sky had turned a deep golden color, richer than any silks or metals could even try to compare with.  A flock of birds flew low overhead, cackling back and forth.
     The younger girl turned to her sister and found that she had gone.  Whirling about frantically, the small girl almost fell into the water when a heron erupted out of the weeds nearby.  Several other workers jumped, and talked excitedly at the good omen the heron surely meant.  Only a small twelve-year-old girl noticed the heron’s pink, almond-shaped eyes.  


1944 AD
In a small suburb in Massachusetts, the United States of America

     A small, blonde-haired boy of about five years sat in his front yard, a crude wooden airplane clutched in his grubby hands.  He swooped and soared in circles, the plane’s wings just brushing the tips of the grass as it dove and spun.  The boy zeroed in on his targets.
     “Die, dumb Germans,” he grumbled as the airplane dropped imaginary bombs on an anthill.  The ants ran around in blind panic, tripping and bumping into one another.  The boy was so engrossed with his game that he almost failed to see the black car pull up in front of his house.  A man got out, dressed in a military uniform.  The boy watched the officer curiously, his steel-gray eyes barely registering the man’s face.
     “Is your mother home, son?” the man asked as he walked up the sidewalk.
     The boy nodded.  Before he could speak, his mother was on the front porch, a hand pressed to her chest.
     The boy loved his mother dearly.  To him, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.  Her black hair was pulled back in a controlled bun, and her white apron with its kitchen smells stood out against her green dress.  She was his pillar of strength, and he trusted her more than anyone else.  If she didn’t seem too worried, than neither was he.
      As the military officer disappeared into the house, the boy returned to his game.  He remembered that a similar car had once pulled up to a house across the street.  The young woman there had begun crying even before the officer had reached her door, and the boy’s mother had rushed out to comfort her.  Suddenly, hassling German ants lost its appeal.
     The boy sat on the porch instead and watched the street before him.  His gray eyes clouded with worry.  A group of older boys from down the road walked by.  One of them waved, and the younger boy waved back.  Then they saw the car.
     “Poor kid,” one of the boys murmured, looking genuinely sorry.  The others murmured in agreement, and they walked on down the street.  The young boy fought the urge to follow them.
     The officer opened the door and the boy spun around.  The old man’s face looked tired.  He ruffled the boy’s hair as he walked past.
     “Be strong for your mother, OK, son?”
     “O…K…” the boy replied hesitantly.
     The man stepped back into the car and drove away.  Before the car was out of his sight, the boy was up and racing into the house.
     He slid to a halt in the kitchen.  His mother held a handkerchief, a photograph and a letter lying side-by-side on the table in front of her.  She looked up, and the boy could see the faint trails of tears glistening on her cheeks.  Fear struck his small heart.  His mother never cried, not even when his father had left for France six months before.  Her face had shown the pain she felt, but she hadn’t cried.
     The boy climbed into her lap, and she squeezed him tightly.  She took a deep breath.
     “Daddy isn’t going to come home.”
     A summer breeze swept through the kitchen, blowing the photograph onto the floor, face-up.  It didn’t hold the stern but kind face that the photographs in the sitting room held.  Instead, it showed a German shepherd dog wearing military issue dog tags.
     Dog tags stamped with the same serial number printed in the letter on the table.