The Wings of Morning

by Murray Pura

  Emma flushed and stammered. “For me? I thought—I thought surely you had brought it for young Peter—”

  “Oh, no,” Lyyndaya said with a smile, reaching over and giving Peter a playful shove, “he’ll have to come down to the table himself and bring me some daisies if he wants a piece of pie.”

  Peter grinned. “But after my aeroplane ride.”

  “If there’s any pie left by then,” Lyyndaya teased.

  “I don’t see why—” Emma was still struggling. “You—didn’t need to go to this trouble.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Lyyndaya plucked a fork from a pocket under her large white apron. “Here you go. It’s cherry, your favorite.”

  “Yes.” Emma still looked bewildered. “My favorite.”

  “Not just any cherry pie either. This is from Mrs. Beachy’s oven.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Beachy—do you mean this is from one of those big ones she makes?”

  “Twenty-nine inches across.”

  Emma laughed and began to regain her composure. “I don’t know how she does it.”

  “Neither do I,” said Lyyndaya. “If I tried to bake a pie that size I’m sure one side would be raw and the other side burnt.”

  “Yes,” Emma said, plunging her fork through the crust, “that would be me also. Do you and Peter mind? I haven’t had anything all day and I’m starved.”

  “Go ahead,” coaxed Lyyndaya. “How many people have gone flying so far?”

  Cherry juice stained one side of Emma’s mouth. “Oh, I have the card here—people write their names in—six, seven, ja, Pastor Miller is number eight. Jude is stopping at twenty. But if you wanted to go up, we could squeeze you in right after Peter.”

  Lyyndaya shook her head and forced herself to laugh. “No, no, I’ve had my flying adventures. How about yourself?”

  “Oh, I’ve been up already, it was marvelous.”

  Lyyndaya felt the stab of pain again, but was determined to push on with the conversation and the forgiveness. “Did you—did you do anything different?”

  Emma was chewing smoothly as she finished the pie. “What do you mean—different?”

  “Well, did you do any crazy things, like go faster or—do a barrel roll?” Lyyndaya hated herself for asking, bracing for the added pain of finding out what she did not want to know.

  “Heavens, no. I’m not like you, Lyyndy. You were always the tomboy, I was always the lady. Remember our games? You ran through the mud puddles, I went around them. You jumped into the creek to swim, I waded at the edge.” She handed the now empty plate and fork back to Lyyndy. “Thank you so much for the pie, that was so sweet of you. Would you like to say hello to Jude? He’ll be landing in a few minutes.” She pointed toward the sun where Lyyndaya noticed the Canuck was fast approaching the hay field, dropping lower and lower.

  Lyyndaya began to move away. “No, I have to get back—I’ve left Mother and my sisters alone long enough.”

  “Perhaps someone should bring Jude some pie,” Emma suggested. “Do you know what he likes, Lyyndaya?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll send Sarah over with one apple and one blueberry,” Lyyndaya said over her shoulder.

  “What if he likes what I like?” smiled Emma.

  “I’ll send cherry and peach too. Our aviator can have a feast.”

  “He’ll get too fat to fit in the cockpit.”

  When Jude landed with Pastor Miller a couple of minutes later, Sarah was arriving with the four slices of pie.

  “That seems too much for one man,” Mrs. Kurtz grumbled, watching Sarah from the pie stand. “Even a healthy strapping one.”

  “Mama,” said Lyyndaya, “he’s been flying for hours with only the time to swallow a mouthful of coffee. It’s the least we can do.”

  Her mother waved a hand in the air as if her daughter were a fly. “Ja, ja.”

  Ruth was cutting a raisin pie for Annie Zook. “There you are, you little drop of sunshine. Large enough?”

  Annie grinned. “So large. I will have to find someone to share it with.”

  “Sharing, yes, that is something you love to do, Annie. Try and save a bite for yourself.”

  Annie spun and danced away. “All right. But no one likes to eat alone.”

  Ruth glanced up at Lyyndaya. “So, how was your chat with Emma?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Perfect? Speaking with Emma Zook was perfect?”

  “It couldn’t have been better.”

  “What does that mean?” Ruth had her hands on her hips.

  Lyyndaya poked at a slice of rhubarb pie, licked her finger, then picked up a fork and began to eat the whole slice. “It means,” she said between mouthfuls, “that I will let Emma be Emma, and Lyyndaya will be Lyyndaya, and God can determine the outcome.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” muttered her mother as she set out three new pies at the approach of one of the Fisher families, with twelve children in tow.

  But Ruth would not let go of it. “Is this something Great-grandmother said?”

  “And something Emma Zook said.” She laughed and changed the subject. “This pie is so good!”

  “Come, sister,” Ruth ordered. “No more games. Out with it.”

  “Emma Zook is not half so bad a soul. And Emma Zook does not do barrel rolls.”

  Ruth thought about this and then her blue eyes smiled. Their mother busied herself at the table between them with a knife in her hand. “All the crazy talk. Emma Zook. Barrel rolls. I thank God you are done with that flying boy. Am I the only one serving the pie? Can you two not find something to do besides stand around and make wild talk?”

  Young John Zook stood quietly in front of Lyyndaya. “May I have apple?”

  Lyyndaya smoothed back his hair. “Oh, of course, Johnny.” She cut him a generous slice of apple pie. “How’s that?”

  “Danke.”

  “Didn’t I see you under a tree reading a book a little while ago?”

  A tiny smile came to John’s serious face. “Ja. About Moses and that Exodus.”

  “Are you going to go up in the aeroplane?”

  “Well—that is why I am reading about that Exodus. To get up the courage.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded as he thrust a fork into his pie. “I read so much about brave people trusting in God, Miss Kurtz. Always I am reading about them. Today I would like to be one of them. If I could only trust God enough to go up like the others. Well, I have asked my sister Emma to hold a place for me.”

  “Do you think you would take a book up there?” teased Lyyndaya.

  He gave a small laugh. “I might if I thought reading a chapter helped me forget I was a mile high.”

  The aeroplane roared past and at a glance, Lyyndaya realized no one was in the front cockpit. Just then Sarah arrived with Peter King, who asked for his promised pie.

  “Peter!” exclaimed Lyyndaya. “Why aren’t you up with Mr. Whetstone?”

  Peter had his hands in his pockets and kicked at a stone. “He said he thought the engine didn’t sound right at five thousand feet. So he went out alone to test it.”

  “Well, isn’t that the right thing to do? Mr. Whetstone doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I guess so.”

  “You didn’t lose your place in line, did you? Of course not. I’m sure Miss Zook will make sure you get on the next ride.”

  “If there is a next ride.”

  “There must be a next ride,” said John Zook. “I think it is God’s will that I go up.”

  “Well, maybe not,” grumbled Peter.

  “Stop being so impossible,” Sarah scolded Peter. “Now, look here. Isn’t this what you always go on about when you want something sweet?”

  She held a lemon pie in her hands. Peter whistled and took off his straw hat. “May I eat it here?”

  “What?” Sarah laughed. “The whole pie?”

  “Oh, no,” the boy said quickly, “just as many pieces as others don’t want.”

  “Start wit
h two,” Sarah said, cutting the slices for him, “and tell me what you think.”

  Peter sat on the grass and dived into the lemon pie with a fork while Sarah watched, half-smiling and half-frowning. “Do you even taste it?” she asked.

  “It’s very good.”

  “Oh, so how good?”

  “Only my mother’s and my nana’s are better.”

  “Then this pie is a third-place pie?”

  Peter smiled with his mouth full. “Well, outside of my family, it is a first-place pie.”

  Sarah clapped her hands. “So a good answer. It’s my pie. I baked it.”

  “No.” Peter stopped eating.

  “Ja.”

  “What is this happening now?” Benjamin Kauffman, holding one of his little boy’s hands, jerked his beard at the sky and the buzz of engines. “Part of the show?”

  Lyyndaya glanced up from cutting apple pie for him and his boy. “What do you mean?”

  “Those other aeroplanes.”

  From the north three Curtiss Jennys were flying close together, fairly high, yellow like Jude’s plane, but with stars on their wings. Jude was a few hundred feet below and slightly ahead of them, slowly banking to the left. It appeared the three Jennys were going to continue south and, as everyone watched, Jude began dropping in elevation and heading toward the Stoltzfus hay field. Lyyndaya glanced away and back to the Kauffman boy, handing him his slice with a wink, when she heard people gasp and shout. She spun around and looked back in time to see, one after another, the three Jennys with starred wings dropping down and diving straight at Jude so steeply that their engines screamed.

  SEVEN

  As the planes dived upon Jude he continued toward the hay field as if nothing were amiss.

  He doesn’t see them, Lyyndaya thought in a panic, but why should he be looking for them? Why should he expect to be attacked? As he drew closer to the hay field, the other planes were almost upon him. If they weren’t careful they could make him crash into the ground. And it didn’t look as if they were being careful.

  My Lord, open his eyes, she prayed, make him look up and back, make him look behind. She continued to pray with her eyes open and, because she didn’t know what else to do to help him, she reached as high as she could and pointed. Oh, this is ridiculous, she thought, why would he be looking over here? Why would he be looking for me? Nevertheless, she half-ran from the pie table and the large oak it was under and, standing on her toes and stretching, pointed behind his plane with every fiber of her being. I know it’s a crazy prayer, but please, God, please, something is not right about those other planes.

  Suddenly Jude’s aeroplane put on a burst of speed. He flew over the hay field and headed north and away from the picnic and the crowd of women, children, and men. The three Jennys sped over the field in hot pursuit. Jude threw his Canuck into a steep climb. The Jennys matched the feat. Then, as everyone watched, Jude looped quickly and neatly back over the Jennys and was on their tails. People clapped.

  “Oh, ho!” cried Bishop Zook, standing beside his daughter Emma. “Such a stunt!”

  The three planes were now being chased by Jude. They swerved left and right, dove and climbed, but they couldn’t shake him. Finally two of them put on speed and kept heading higher and further north, with no obvious intention of grappling any further with Jude and his Canuck.

  The third plane seemed to stall, but that caused Jude to fly past him, and the other pilot then resumed the pursuit of Jude’s Canuck, opening the throttle and racing after him from behind and below. Yet it almost seemed to Lyyndaya as if Jude had anticipated this. He immediately dove to the right and banked at the same time. When the other Jenny went after him, Jude in his turn stalled the plane deliberately so the Jenny with starred wings overflew him, and he swiftly gunned the engine and pounced on his back.

  From then on, no matter what the other pilot did, up and down, using the stall again or putting on speed, he could not shake the Canuck. It was as if a rope had been tied from one plane to another, and nothing either one did could sever it. Even when the other Jenny did a barrel roll, hoping to confuse the Canuck, Jude simply matched the roll and then did a second one so that he was suddenly right on top of the other plane.

  Unable to lose Jude, the Jenny waggled its wings and slowed down, and the pilot made indications with his hands that he intended to land on the Stoltzfus hay field. Jude waggled his wings in return, but remained above and in a position of advantage, obviously not trusting the other aviator. He let the man’s Jenny drop slowly. When its wheels had touched grass he came in behind it and landed a couple of hundred feet away. The colony ran toward the planes and swarmed over them once the propellers had stopped turning. Lyyndaya lifted the hem of her dress and ran with them, racing past Emma, who had never been fast, even as a thin, skinny teenager.

  She saw Jude working his way through the crowd to get to the other pilot, who was similarly surrounded. Jude finally got up to the man. When Lyyndaya looked at his face, it was a thundercloud, and for a moment she thought Jude was going to throw a punch. Instead she heard him snap, “Who are you and what was all that about?”

  The pilot, shorter than Jude and sporting a mustache, dressed in a uniform under his leather flying jacket, extended a hand through the crush of bodies. “Cook, Lieutenant Brendan Cook, old boy, His Majesty’s Royal Flying Corps. Sorry about that. I had some of you Yanks on a training flight and there was a decoy we were supposed to attack. Thought it was you.”

  Jude did not immediately take the hand. “You staged a mock attack over an Amish colony during a summer picnic? Suppose one of the planes had been forced down or crashed? Look at all these women and children—”

  “No chance of that, we keep our Jennys in tip-top shape—as you do, obviously. Sorry again. The chaps I was leading will be going to France in the fall. That’s why the mock combat. I expect we missed our target aeroplane some miles north of here.”

  The pilot’s hand was still extended. Jude got his emotions under control, thought briefly about what the man had said, then shook his hand. Lynndaya could see that many of the people thought this was all part of the act. They smiled and clapped their hands softly.

  “What about the American pilots?” asked Jude.

  “I indicated they should head back to base. That I’d finish you off. Well, that didn’t happen, did it? Where did you learn to fly like that, may I ask?”

  “I took lessons in Philadelphia. I’m a member of a flying club there.”

  “And you stage mock aerial attacks?”

  “No, we don’t. But we—I—like to do loops and dives and—I’ve read some of the aviators’ accounts of the flying in France and Germany in the New York newspapers—”

  The Royal Flying Corps officer raised his eyebrows. “What? You mean you’re self-taught in your aerial combat skills?”

  “Well—” Jude hesitated. “I have no desire to be a combat pilot. But I do like the exciting maneuvers.”

  “No desire to be a combat pilot?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re not registered for the U.S. Selective Service?”

  “I’m twenty.”

  “And when you turn twenty-one?”

  “I’ll register. And I’ll be exempted.”

  “Exempted?” The officer put his hands on his hips. “A healthy lad like you? On what grounds?”

  “Religion.”

  “Religion?” Lt. Brendan Cook laughed and looked about him as if expecting support. “Plenty of the lads who are flying are religious—Catholics, Church of England, Church of Scotland, Methodists—”

  “The Amish are conscientious objectors. We don’t take up arms.”

  “Is that what you are—” Cook glanced about him again. “Is that what these—oddly dressed people are?”

  “We’re Amish. Our people came here from Europe over two hundred years ago, looking for freedom to live our Christian beliefs. Not long after the Mayflower brought Pilgrims here for the same reason.”
<
br />   “I see. I see. So—you will not fight—even though thousands of people are being slaughtered—the Huns are bayoneting babies and violating Christian women—towns and villages are going up in flames—your own American boys are being machine-gunned in the trenches—”

  “There is no need for a war.”

  “No?”

  “The Germans are Christians too.”

  “Are they?” Cook stood facing Jude like someone who was not used to having his arguments turned aside. It was Bishop Zook, unaware of the tension between Jude and the British officer, who arrived and unwittingly defused the situation.

  “Ah, sir,” he boomed, shaking Lt. Cook’s hand, “Willkommen, willkommen, that was quite a show you put on for us. Such stunts. So what do you think of our young man Jude Whetstone? Can he fly, hm?”

  “Oh, he can fly, sir,” Cook responded, still not sure what to make of this part of America he had landed in. “The question is, will he?”

  “What?” The bishop did not understand. “Are you going up again so soon?”

  “I don’t know—” Cook began.

  “Nein, nein, it is a picnic, we celebrate our freedom to live and follow our Lord Jesus Christ in America, you must stay awhile, we are just about to eat—well, we eat all day—” he said with a laugh. “Come, sit with us for an hour, why not?”

  “Are you speaking German, sir?” the startled officer asked Bishop Zook.

  “Some German, some English, if one doesn’t work I use the other, come, come.”

  The bishop managed to coax the English pilot to a blanket under a cluster of shade trees. He introduced the man to Emma, who gave the officer her brightest smile—and a plate of food. Meanwhile, the crowd dispersed back to their own blankets and picnic lunches.

  Lyyndaya had to smile at the scene. Soon the pilot will be eating cold chicken and potatoes and Emma will be feeding him fresh strawberries for dessert. Her thoughts were interrupted as she was suddenly aware that she was not alone. She turned her head to see Jude standing beside her.

  “Do you think your mother will notice?” he asked.