The Gang of Black Eagles: La Bande Des Aigles Noirs

By Patrick Albouy

This is a fictional book about the gang of Black Eagles. The main character finally believed that “Christ has risen!” as what he confessed out loud.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781982231705

Patrick Albouy

Patrick was born in Paris division 19th. was in an orphanage from the age of six to seventeen. He then move with his mother in Paris XV (15eme) France. He came to America in January of 1978... He is part Russian. He was raised in the Russian boarding school near Paris (France). he is an ENFP. He became an American in 2019. He now lives in San Jose California.

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Copyright © 2019 Patrick Rapace Albouy.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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ISBN: 978-1-9822-3169-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-3170-5 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date:   07/18/2019

CONTENTS

Chapter 1   The Decision

Chapter 2   Le Château

Chapter 3   The Law Of God

Chapter 4   A Magical Princess

Chapter 5   The Third Story

Chapter 6   Friends

Chapter 7   A Snowstorm

Chapter 8   Boarding School Rules

Chapter 9   Rescue Of The Raven

Chapter 10 The Rebellion & The Vigil

CHAPTER 1

The Decision

S HE COULD STILL change her mind: there was still time.

In the darkness, she could barely make out the hands on her wristwatch, the last cherished possession she clung to that linked her to a better past. Outside, the streets of nocturnal Paris were silent. It must be about three. Seven hours, then, remained; seven or eight hours before she would have to complete the unthinkable transaction.

Some twenty years before, at a great ball for Mardi gras she had attended with her mother, in those happier times, an ancient fortune‐teller had foretold this day, but no one had believed her.

Even when the gypsy crone had conjured up, out of some mystic trance, the whole sad, glorious story of her mother’s past, the blood, the tears, the losses, the banishment, the magic of survival, no one had believed her.

It was the social event of the season, that ball. Hardly the place to run into clairvoyants.

But now the fateful day had come; the terrible prediction that was some kind of curse, it seemed, was every moment looming more real and more irrevocable.

In the pre‐dawn chill of the small, dingy room, she glanced over at the small shape curled into as tight a ball as could possibly be made of rapidly growing limbs, resting upon an old armchair that could not make a comfortable bed for a six-year-old. He slept under her only heavy coat, with a towel instead of a sheet, in his well‐worn street clothes. He slept the deep, mercifully sweet sleep of innocence, the slumber of childhood ignorance, knowing not what awaited him with the coming of the day. Her hand moved to stroke his lovely hair once again, but she drew it back, for he might waken from her caress, and she would have to face her guilt in this bad business that much sooner.

Once more she tried to sleep on her own narrow bed, wrapping her arms around herself to add some warmth to the indescribably frayed blanket that must have been, she thought, at least a hundred years old. What tales that blanket might have told, she wondered, having lost so many layers of its original substance in use!

But sleep would not come. She tried to pray, as her mother had taught her, but the words would not come she was about to commit the worst crime she could imagine herself to be capable of. How could she pray? When God and the angels had so clearly abandoned her.

In fact, she thought, It’s your own fault I’m doing this. It’s your fault: you have brought me to this.

Did she mean God? Or did she mean her husband?

The morning came: the morning she would rather never have seen. The boy began to stir. Mother of God, she thought, Please help me.

There was no other way. You’ll get through this, somehow, her inner voice replied, strengthening her resolve. You’ll both get through this. It’s for the best. And it’s the only way…

She turned on her side, to see him better. The light of a brilliant morning was streaming into the room now, and she could see those huge expressive eyes of his staring right into hers.

He smiled, just as he had on every other morning she remembered. Her heart ached terribly at the sight of that sweet radiant smile coming from a little boy who was the better part of her.

Good morning, Mama.

Good morning, Patrick. Did you sleep well? she asked, just as she would have on any other day.

Wonderfully! I dreamt I was riding in a great big forest, on Pegasus—at least it seemed like it was Pegasus—and we came to a pool of water where there was a little girl, and a unicorn was drinking from the water…

She sighed and put her hand gently to his lips to stop him from saying more.

Are you hungry? she asked, forcing him back into reality.

He reflected for a moment. Why, no, not really. I ate in my dream. The girl was a fairy, she had one of these tablecloths, you know, that bring forth a magical feast, and so we ate… There were all kinds of food there! Cakes, watermelon, ice creams!

Shhh… She insisted he stop. Such a fanciful mind he had, this son of hers. Who knows, perhaps it was best that he should be somewhere where his mind could be disciplined and his body trained in ways she could not begin to provide, try as she might these six years. Well, I’m hungry, if you aren’t. I’m dying for a little coffee. Come on, sleepy head. Wash up and let’s go out on our little adventure.

Patrick adored his mother. Her every wish was law, just as her every trait was the expression of perfection, in his understanding of the universe. Those thoughtful gray eyes; the soft hands barely bigger than his own; the slightly stooping shoulders; the set jaw; that rare, sparkling laugh he loved to hear, that rang out so infrequently this winter. The water in the tap was icy, but he splashed it on cheerfully, letting it run under the cuffs of his oversized shirt (inherited from some much bigger boy) and soaking his arms in the process. He shrugged off the stinging feeling that gave him goosebumps, combed his own hair, dried his hands as best he could, and appeared, beaming, before his lady.

She had been, for six years, the love of his life. And he had no idea she was about to betray him in the cruelest way imaginable.

Smiling weakly at his beaming, upturned face, she planted the obligatory morning kiss on his forehead. Her lips seemed strangely cold to him, colder even than the water. As cold as a corpse’s, he would remember later.

She led him out into the street, full of the noise and bustle of Paris on a working day in November of 1953. Carefully, she counted out the few francs that remained in her precise budget. One small coffee for her, one proper brioche for her son. Their last breakfast together.

She smoked her morning cigarette with her coffee as she watched him eat happily, swinging his legs under the table as he chewed. It bothered her that she was rationing cigarettes now: just a few a day, and of course the First one of the morning was always the sweetest. She tried to make it last for as long as possible, but there was a train to catch.

It was not a very long trip, just 17 kilometers from the heart of Paris. Patrick loved trains; this ride was a rare treat for him. He stayed glued to the window, while she gave full freedom to her thoughts.

The habits of poverty imposed themselves, try