by Murray Pura
Endorsements
The reviews are in! Murray Pura’s books are a definite thumbs-up!
THE WINGS OF MORNING…
“Pura has created one of the finest stories of Amish fiction I have ever read…The reader will be applauding the exceptional writing, and the cast of characters demands an encore performance.”
—Lindy J. Swanson, reviewer for Romantic Times
“Pura masterfully balances depictions of simple Amish living with the harm that can be caused when religious ideology overrides compassion and understanding.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Pura’s novel of an Amish community facing an unprecedented world war is accurate and winsome. But his portrayal of the two main characters, young people of integrity and maturity, is absolutely riveting. A book to be relished by any age, from young readers to their elders.”
—Eugene H. Peterson, professor emeritus of Spiritual Theology, Regent College, Vancouver BC, and author of more than 30 books, including the Gold Medallion Book Award winner The Message: The Bible in Contemporary Language
“What a delight it was picking up an action-packed, historically informative and romantic novel as family-friendly as this one…I would recommend this book to all who enjoy well-penned prose; the story is a read-aloud feast…We enthusiastically give this book a five-star rating.”
—Robin and Elaine Phillips, adjunct college instructors, Cochrane, Alberta, Canada
THE FACE OF HEAVEN…
“Pura’s action-packed attention to military detail pulls the reader directly into the mechanics and the atrocities of a war that divided the nation. Still, the war is merely a backdrop to the personal conflicts of these young Christians who feel compelled to follow their convictions despite the impending consequences.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A powerful literary masterpiece. A brilliant novel, destined to become a classic.”
—Diana Flowers, OTT (Overcoming Through Time)
“If you love a good story, one set in a turbulent time in America’s past, I recommend you get a copy of The Face of Heaven. This book has something to appeal to everyone!”
—Mary Ellis, author of Living in Harmony
“The message is life-changing, the writing superb, the characters believable. Don’t miss this one!”
—Kathy Macias, author of The Deliverer
“The Face of Heaven is full of surprises and twists that fiction readers love. It keeps us turning pages and wishing the book did not have to end. But end it does. And all I can say is, write us another, Mr. Pura!”
—Connie Cavanaugh, author of Following God One Yes at a Time
Snapshots in History Novels
WHISPERS OF A NEW DAWN
A Snapshots in History novel
The Snapshots in History novels are compelling romantic stories about faith-filled men and women caught up in the high drama of historical events of great significance.
World War I—The Wings of Morning
The Civil War—The Face of Heaven
Pearl Harbor—Whispers of a New Dawn
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
All Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota
Cover photos © Chris Garborg; Bigstock / diomedes66, idizimage, KMVS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
WHISPERS OF A NEW DAWN
Copyright © 2013 by Murray Pura
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pura, Murray, 1954-
Whispers of a new dawn / Murray Pura.
pages cm. – (Shapshots in History ; Book 3)
ISBN 978-0-7369-5170-8 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-7369-5171-5 (eBook)
1. Amish—Fiction. 2. World War, 1939-1945—Participation, Amish—Fiction 3. World War,
1939-1945—Hawaii—Honolulu—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.P87W45 2013
813'.6—dc23
2012041417
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This story is dedicated to my editor at Harvest House Publishers, Nick Harrison, and to his father, Henry Harrison, RMI, USCGC Taney WHEC-37, Pearl Harbor survivor.
Nos mos nunquam alieno, may we never forget.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks again to a super team at Harvest House Publishers—Nick, Laura, Shane, Katie, Paul, and the many others who help writers’ dreams see the light of day with as much strength and integrity as possible. Thanks also to Jeane Wynn of Wynn-Wynn Media.
Thanks always to my beautiful family—my wife, Linda, my son, Micah, and my daughter, Micaela. And a big thank-you to my many new readers and friends who have gladly made my stories a part of their lives. God bless you all.
Contents
Endorsements
Snapshots in History Novels
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
About the Author
Other Books by Murray Pura
ONE
The de Havilland Leopard Moth, its single red wing on fire with the light of the afternoon sun, banked east and to the left, heading toward a massive purple thunderhead that filled the horizon. The young woman at the controls smiled as the two passengers seated behind her began to squirm in their seats and murmur to each other. She sensed the craning of their necks and the widening of their eyes as they peered through the glass of the canopy. Finally one of them reached forward and tapped her on the shoulder of her leather flight jacket.
“Miss Whetstone?”
She continued to smile her small smile and kept her eyes straight ahead. “How can I help you, Mr. Thornberry?”
“Is there some reason you are steering us straight into a lightning storm?”
“Well, it’s hurricane season, Mr. Thornberry. It’s difficult to avoid sto
rm systems at this time of year.”
“Surely we can go around it?”
“It would take us hundreds of miles off our flight path and we’d run out of fuel. You don’t fancy a swim in the Caribbean Sea, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“Though the water is very warm. Even far out from shore it will be in the mid-seventies. Perhaps warmer.”
“Miss Whetstone.” A woman’s voice filled the cockpit. “I don’t appreciate your cavalier tone. We have God’s work to do on Turks and Caicos. Mr. Thornberry and I would like to arrive there safely. The mission board assured us that your entire family was not only committed Christians but qualified pilots as well.”
“We are, Mrs. Thornberry.”
“May I ask when you received your license?”
“I soloed when I was fifteen, Mrs. Thornberry. In 1937 in British East Africa. I received my first license when I turned sixteen.”
“Sixteen! And how much have you flown since then?”
“Quite a bit.”
“Please give us a number.”
“A thousand hours. Two thousand. Perhaps more.”
The young female pilot heard a gasp of annoyance.
“Stop toying with us, Rebecca Whetstone!” snapped Mrs. Thornberry. “Two thousand!”
The pilot glanced back at her, turning a head with bright blond hair that had been pinned and tucked up under a leather flight helmet. “I don’t mean to annoy you, ma’am. You can always pray if you feel your life and mission are in jeopardy.”
“We shouldn’t have to pray about your flying ability,” growled Mr. Thornberry, his dark eyebrows coming together in a thick line of charcoal.
“I was raised to pray about everything,” the pilot replied and turned to the front once again.
For a while there was only the sound of the four-cylinder air-cooled inline engine as it pulled them through the blue sky and over the turquoise sea. Then Mr. Thornberry leaned forward. His voice was light and pleasant. He had decided to try a different approach.
“Rebecca—”
“My friends call me Becky.”
“I see. Well, I should like to be a friend. Ah, the mission board said you had been three years on the main island of Providenciales.”
“That’s right.”
“And the church you planted with your parents has, what, just under two hundred people now?”
“One hundred and sixty-seven. That includes children. And newborns.”
“I think that’s remarkable. Remarkable.” He paused, and Becky Whetstone imagined him staring at the clouds that loomed closer and closer, arrayed like black and purple pillars in the sky in front of them. “And all that time you flew back and forth from Miami frequently?”
“I did. So did my father and my mother. We often flew in and out of Cuba and Jamaica as well. Sometimes Haiti and the Dominican Republic. You can just spot the island Haiti and the Republic share over on our right. To the west.”
“The board mentioned a brother.”
“Nate is several years older than I am.” Becky’s voice suddenly lost its playfulness. “He chose to go to China as a missionary instead of joining us in the Caribbean.”
“Is that where he is now?”
“We have not heard from him in three years. Not since 1938.”
Mrs. Thornberry’s voice had nothing of the frost of minutes before. “Where was his mission?”
“In Nanking.”
“Nanking.” Mrs. Thornberry’s voice softened further. “Where the Japanese army was so brutal.”
“Yes.” Becky suddenly spoke in a tight and clipped manner. “Mother and Father continue to make inquiries. They refuse to give up hope. Every Sunday dinner a place is set for Nate. The praying in our family does not stop. It never stops.”
“What was…” Mr. Thornberry hesitated. “What is your brother like?”
Becky saw the tall and slender body, the long sensitive fingers, the shy smile, blond hair always falling into his eyes and making him squint.
“He’s beautiful,” she said.
Moments after she said this, the stabs of lightning and the towering dark clouds cleared from in front of the aircraft. They were shifting to the right, heading west for Haiti and the Dominican Republic and Cuba. No longer in a teasing mood, Becky simply said, “The trade winds blow from east to west. I knew the storm system would be gone long before we reached Turks and Caicos.”
With the thunderheads gone, the islands of the Bahamas were obvious and Becky pointed them out to the Thornberrys. The water flashed jade and emerald and aquamarine and a dreamlike blue topaz. The Leopard Moth began to descend as Becky headed toward Turks and Caicos, just below the Bahaman Islands chain.
“How beautiful the water is!”
Becky twisted around and gave Mrs. Thornberry her full smile. It made her whole face come to life—her cat-sharp green eyes, her brown tan, the air and sun look of her hair. “It’s like velvet to swim in, Mrs. Thornberry. So warm and clear. It’s as if someone you loved put their arms around you. Someone like God.”
The smile made Becky’s beauty so obvious and so startling that Mr. Thornberry had to glance away, back down to the green sea and the islands with their white strips of sand. “The mission board is sorry you’re moving on.”
Becky faced front and continued to nose the Leopard Moth downward, completely unaware of the effect she had had on the older man. “It’s a British territory. It’s only right that British missionaries like yourselves carry on with God’s work here.”
“We’re all his children. Nationalities don’t matter. I wish you and your parents would reconsider.”
“I love it here, Mr. Thornberry, believe me. The light brightens everything in a kind of supernatural way, as if we’re not in this world but on the shores of heaven. It makes the island throb. Gives palm trees and waves and seagulls and people—everything—a fire. A divine color. I can’t get enough of what God has done in the tropics.”
Surprised by Becky’s sudden chattiness, Mrs. Thornberry spoke up. “I agree with my husband. You really should consider staying on. It’s clear that the Lord has ministered to your heart and spirit here.”
“We’ve prayed this through, Mrs. Thornberry. Each of us agrees that it’s time to return to America for awhile. My grandfather—dad’s father, Grandpa Whetstone—died last month and we haven’t been back to Pennsylvania since we arrived at Turks and Caicos. That was in ’38 and now it’s July of 1941—more than three years have gone by and we haven’t set foot on the old homestead.”
“I read that some of your family were farmers. Part of a religious sect.” Mrs. Thornberry coughed. “I’m sorry. For want of a better word.”
“Oh, they’re Christians just like you and me.” Becky’s voice had tightened again. “They go about it a bit differently, that’s all. But Jesus is everything to them.” She straightened in her seat. “You can spot people on the beaches now and under the coconut trees. Are you both strapped in? Here we go!”
The plane roared over the glittering waters and palm trees and people waved as it swooped past. There was a crunch and a bounce and then another bounce, and the Thornberrys gripped the sides of their seats and watched coconut groves and pine trees with long needles stream by. The aircraft came to a stop by a hangar that gleamed silver. A cluster of people stood at the edge of the runway and once the propeller finished turning over they began to walk over toward the scarlet monoplane.
Becky opened up the canopy, waved to the people approaching, and helped the Thornberrys down. Then she dug out the luggage and tossed the cases to a tall man in white pants and shirt with brown hair and skin that had tanned a much darker hue than hers. He caught them and set them on the ground.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“Yes, Dad.” She jumped down and kissed him on the cheek. “Miss me?”
“Three days is an eternity. How’s Miami?”
“Crowded.” She turned and hugged a woman with blond hair and green
eyes like hers who wore a white blouse and skirt. “Hi, Mom. How was your second honeymoon?”
Her mother laughed. “A lot shorter than my first. Introduce me to your passengers.”
“Mom. Dad. Everyone.” Becky extended her hand toward the Thornberrys. “This is Mr. and Mrs. Thornberry of Essex. They’re here to serve the wonderful people of Turks and Caicos.”
“Welcome.” Becky’s father shook their hands. “God bless you.”
Becky’s mother took their hands as well. “We’ve looked forward to your arrival. The mission board made it sound like you were going to be here last week.”
“Oh, delays of all sorts.” Mr. Thornberry had already begun to perspire as he stood under the sun in his white shirt and tie and dark navy suit. “Everything’s sorted out.” He looked around him. “Are these some of the members of the church, Mr. Whetstone?”
“Jude. Yes, these are our elders. And Mrs. Hamilton here plays the piano and directs the choir.”
“Splendid.” He shook hands and bowed slightly as he met each person. “I’m so pleased to be among you. My wife and I have been praying about this for years.”
Mrs. Thornberry, also looking warm in a maroon dress and a purple hat with white cotton flowers, smiled and took the hands of the men and women. “Mr. Thornberry is not exaggerating. We’re so grateful to God to be here at last.”
“And we also are pleased you are here.” A tall man grinned. “I am John. Yes, we are glad to have you among us but sorry to see the Whetstone family go.”
Mr. Thornberry wiped his face and forehead with a handkerchief from a pocket in his suit. “I understand. Indeed, Mrs. Thornberry and I asked young Rebecca if her family might not consider staying on.”
“Did you?”
Mrs. Thornberry turned her brightest smile on Becky’s mother. “Mrs. Whetstone. It would be wonderful if you could remain on the island. Even for another six months.”
“Lyyndaya, please. Or just Lyyndy. Mrs. Thornberry, we’d be so happy to stay and never move an inch from this place. But we’ve talked it over, prayed it over, and read through parts of the Bible again and again. We believe we’re supposed to return to Pennsylvania. Perhaps not forever. But for a season. Once we’re there and have been part of whatever it is the Lord wants us to be part of, we expect we’ll get a strong sense of where we’re to go next. We have no idea where that might be.”
