Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

Dan touched his face, remembering the momentary warmth of the uninhibited sunlight. He turned his back to the door and slid to the ground. “Lord, have I made a terrible mistake? Should I have gone?”

  Yet, even as Dan prayed, he knew it was not to be. Even in the darkness, a sense of peace settled over him. His time of darkness wasn’t over. The final night had not passed.

  His ear perked to the Morse code being tapped against the wall.

  Dan crawled back to his corner and curled against the cool wood. P-l-e-a-s-e b-e-g-i-n a-g-a-i-n, he tapped, then pressed his ear to listen.

  T-h-r-o-u-g-h t-h-e t-e-n-d-e-r m-e-r-c-y o-f o-u-r G-o-d w-h-e-r-e-b-y t-h-e d-a-y-s-p-r-i-n-g f-r-o-m o-n h-i-g-h h-a-t-h v-i-s-i-t-e-d u-s t-o g-i-v-e l-i-g-h-t t-o t-h-e-m t-h-a-t s-i-t i-n d-a-r-k-n-e-s-s a-n-d i-n t-h-e s-h-a-d-o-w o-f d-e-a-t-h, t-o g-u-i-d-e o-u-r f-e-e-t i-n-t-o t-h-e w-a-y o-f p-e-a-c-e L-u-k-e 1 78 79.

  Dan considered those words. “To give light to them that sit in darkness.” He said the words slowly as if digesting each one. “To guide our feet into the way of peace.”

  Peace. Could it be around the corner? More bombers roared overhead by the day. American bombers. The Japanese had completely lost control of their own sky.

  Lord, I’ve discovered eternal liberation within these walls. Will it be from here my body is also liberated?

  Dan pulled out the photo of Libby. So many years. And he was a different man from the one she’d fallen in love with. Did she still wait?

  Can she accept me for the broken man I’ve become?

  The airstream acted similar to waves of a choppy sea, tossing Libby’s Cub about.

  It’s like riding a log raft in the rapids.

  Finally she spotted the airfield. “We’re here.” She patted the seat. “I don’t know how Ginger does it, flying you toys all day.”

  Since the Cub didn’t have a radio to communicate with the tower, Libby put the small flier in a holding pattern and waited for the red light on the runway to turn green.

  She nearly laughed as the plane bounced upon landing. She could land a large, fully armed pursuit with ease, but it would take a few times to remember how to land the little trainers.

  Libby felt a strong crosswind as she taxied to the parking area in front of the hangar. She cut her engine. But, as if not willing for the trip to be over, the Cub bucked under the mercy of the wind, its wings wobbling.

  “Whoa, Nelly. Easy gal.” Libby jumped out, her boots landing on the pavement, and grabbed the plane’s strut, but the wind pulled harder.

  Suddenly the plane began to spin. Its wing passed over her, and before she knew what was happening, the propeller struck Libby’s forehead full force. She flew backward, sprawling on the tarmac.

  “Ugh.” She heard footsteps and opened her eyes to see a man grabbing the lightweight Cub and pushing it to a better spot.

  “Are you okay, miss?”

  Libby moaned. “I think so. Do you see any blood?”

  “No blood, but a nasty bump. Let’s get you inside and put some ice on that.”

  The man pulled Libby to her feet, but a rush of nausea came over her. “Uh, you better set me down. I think I need a few minutes.”

  Her head throbbed, and Libby moaned, imagining the news story. Lady Pilot Wrangled Large Pursuits, Shown Her Match by Bucking Cub.

  Thirty-Eight

  “LET OUR HEARTS BE STOUT”: A PRAYER

  BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

  Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion, and our civilization, and to set free a suffering humanity.

  Lead them straight and true: Give strength to their arms, stoutness to their hearts, steadfastness in their faith.

  Many people have urged that I call the nation into a single day of special prayer. But because the road is long and the desire is great, I ask that our people devote themselves in a continuance of prayer. As we rise to each new day, and again when each day is spent, let words of prayer be on our lips invoking Thy help to our efforts.

  Thy will be done, Almighty God.

  Amen.

  Excerpt from the New York Times, June 7, 1944

  The small community of Hanson, Kentucky, had no hospital, so Dr. Brown made a house call, checking on Libby at the boardinghouse where Ginger had a room.

  The elderly, gray-haired doctor examined Libby’s eyes with a penlight.

  “Yup, that’s one nasty bump. I’m sure you’ll have black eyes tomorrow.” He gently pressed on the area around her nose.

  Libby winced and pulled back.

  “Tender, yes. But the thing that’s got me worried is your nausea. Could be sign of a concussion. But even then, you should be fine. We’ll just keep an eye on you. The worst case would be trauma to your optic nerve.”

  “Is that serious?”

  He flipped off the penlight, sliding it back into his shirt pocket. “Could be. My suggestion is that you stay down for a few days. Mrs. McMurphy said she’d take care of you. Keep the ice pack fresh for that bump.”

  “But I told Ginger I’d ferry the planes for her. I—”

  Dr. Brown scowled. “Now listen here. The last thing you want is to be piloting a plane with a head injury. It’s not like walking around, you know. If you black out, that will be the end of you. I’ll be back in a few days to check in.”

  “So I have to lie here and rest for two or three days? What else can I do, you know, to speed up my recovery?”

  The doctor moved to the window and lowered the shade. “Are you a religious woman?”

  Libby nodded, then winced from the throbbing in her temple.

  “Our boys are fighting a mighty battle as we speak, storming the beaches at Normandy. It might be a good time to send up some prayers. It seems the tide of the war can turn to our favor if we succeed today.”

  Libby let her eyelids flutter shut. “Of course, I’ll pray. And I guess in the scheme of things, a bump on the head isn’t that bad.”

  Dr. Brown patted her leg. “That’s a good girl. I’ll be back to check on you; and if anything changes or things get worse, just let Mrs. McMurphy know. She’s a saint, that woman. You’re in good hands.”

  Ginger arrived home two days later. “You poor thing. Just look at you.” Her hand covered her mouth, holding back a giggle. “Libby, I’m sorry, but you look like a raccoon.”

  “I look like a raccoon, but I feel like a donkey. What was I thinking, trying to hold down a spinning Cub?”

  “Have you tried to get up?” Ginger sat in the chair next to Libby’s bed.

  “Just to the bathroom and back. Mrs. McMurphy has been a doll. I wish I could take her home. She even made blueberry muffins.”

  “And the doctor. What does he think?”

  “He’s supposed to drop by tomorrow, but I’m sure everything will be fine. I think my body’s just using this time as an excuse to get some extra sleep. I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was.” Libby sat up in bed. For an instant the room seemed to blur, but she ignored it, choosing instead to focus on Ginger’s concerned smile. “And what about you? How were the hearings?”

  Ginger rose and moved to the nightstand, fiddling with the bouquet of white roses Mrs. McMurphy had brought in from her garden. “I—I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.” She took a rose from the vase and lifted it to her nose. “Honestly, things aren’t looking good. There are a whole bunch of stuffed-shirt bureaucrats who consider the WAFS simply a pet project. I’m really worried. The training program has been shut down for good, and they still don’t want to give us military status. Just between us … I’m afraid the whole program might wash out.”

  “You can’t be serious.” A sharp pain shot through Libby’s head. She let out a low moan, and the room faded into fuzz. She quickly closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her eyelids.

  “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, I’m glad to know—but, my head. I think I’ve tried to do to
o much.”

  “Of course.” Ginger’s voice faded, but Libby didn’t open her eyes. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

  The door closed, and Libby felt her stomach turn. “Dear God, no. Please no.” She turned to her side, grabbing the bucket Mrs. McMurphy had left for her. Her stomach retched, and she heaved into the bucket. “God, please help me.”

  She tried to muffle her sobs into her pillow. The worst part was, Libby didn’t know which she was crying harder about—the thought of the WAFS being disbanded or fear about her future. What did “trauma to the optic nerve” mean, exactly?

  Libby wiped her eyes, daring to open them. “Please, Lord. Please.” But it was no use. The room faded just as it had before, and even turning her head on her pillow caused the room to black out completely.

  She curled onto her side and tucked the blankets around her, wanting more than anything to have someone there to brush back the hair from her face and tell her everything would be okay. But it wasn’t just anyone she wanted. It was Dan. And more tears flowed as she considered the reality that he might not be coming back.

  “Remember, there are men fighting and dying at this very moment,” she tried to tell herself. “In comparison, I don’t have it so bad.”

  But even as she whispered the words in the fading light, her heart told her otherwise. It seemed that everything she cared for and loved was being stripped away.

  Thirty-Nine

  PRAYER FOR ARMED FORCES

  To the Editor:

  It may interest your readers to have the following, a prayer for this crisis. It is taken from one of seven leaflets for the armed forces and their friends at home. This is shortened a little from the original.

  “Jesus Christ, our Savior, King of Kings, in Whose pierced Hands are held the destiny of nations, we ask You for a just victory and lasting peace for our dearly beloved native land. Protect the souls and bodies of all in the armed forces, and bring them back safely to their dear ones. Guard and comfort those who must wait at home, and move their hearts to prayer and confidence in You, Who live and reign, almighty and all-loving God, forever and ever, Amen.”

  Edward F. Garesche, Catholic Medical Mission Board, Inc.

  Excerpt from the New York Times, June 17, 1944

  Libby turned her face to the footsteps nearing the door and squinted, trying to decipher the face of the man who entered. The one she hoped would give a better second opinion.

  “It’s okay, Miss Conners. You don’t have to open your eyes for me. I’m no Jimmy Stewart, if you know what I mean.”

  Dr. Anderson laughed, but Libby didn’t join in.

  She closed her eyes again, and her eyelids shined red from the light of the examination room. But even as she lay upon the table, the room seemed to sway around her, like the rocking of a life raft on a gentle wave.

  “I’m afraid it does look like traumatic optic neuropathy, which is just a fancy way of saying that you got a bad knock to the bones protecting your eyes. Unfortunately, this is one of the worst cases I’ve seen.” He turned to his chart. “The impact has caused a buildup of blood from the injury. It’s putting pressure on the optic nerve. That accounts for the blurriness you’re experiencing.”

  “But you can do something about it, right? Surgery? Or is there something I can do? I’m a pilot, you know. I—I’ve already spent too much time away.”

  He didn’t answer for a few seconds. “Surgery won’t work. Even if we’re able to relieve the pressure, the scar tissue could cause the same type of pressure. I’m afraid all I can say is to wait.” He took her hand in his.

  Libby opened her eyes and saw sympathy in his gaze.

  “Wait for the pressure to go down. Sometimes it happens, and other times …”

  Libby didn’t need for him to say the words. A pain shot through her chest, making her breathing labored, as she realized that her whole world was collapsing around her.

  I don’t think I can do it, Lord. I can’t be this strong … be strong for me.

  Rose’s laughter filled the railroad passenger car as she chatted with a group of reserves on the way home for weekend leave. This was their second day on board together, and Libby had thanked Rose a dozen times for taking time off to join her on the train ride home.

  Rose shrugged. “That’s what friends are for.”

  The rumbling of the engines and the gentle rocking of the train had lulled Libby into a state of numbness. “Last time I returned home a hero. This time, what do I have to show for myself?” She touched the bandages over her eyes. “I can’t even read the newspaper without feeling sick, let alone wash my own laundry or cook.”

  Rose rested her head on Libby’s shoulder. “Not that you were much of a cook to begin with.”

  Libby reached over and pinched her friend’s arm. “Thanks a lot. I can always count on you to make me feel better.” She could hear the smile in Rose’s voice.

  “I aim to please.” Rose sighed. “Besides, if things continue sliding downhill the way they are, none of us will be flying soon.”

  “Flying for the military, that is. But even if you have to go back to commercial work, you can still race through the sky.”

  The train began to slow, finally pulling to a stop. The noises of men and women adjusting in their seats, or standing to stretch, filled Libby’s ears.

  Rose lifted her head. “I think this is it. We’re here. Oh, look, there’s your dad. I recognize him from his picture.”

  “Oh, look?” Libby’s bottom lip pouted.

  “Sorry. Here. Let me get that for you.”

  Libby felt the satchel lifted from her grasp. She stretched her hand forward, keeping her hand on Rose’s shoulder.

  Rose’s hand curled on her elbow. “Careful, there’s a step here. That’s it. One more.”

  As soon as they stepped from the train, down onto the platform, she felt strong arms encircling her.

  “Oh, Daddy.” Libby wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling the scratch of his whiskers against her cheek. His hand brushed back her hair, and Libby wondered why she’d stayed away so long.

  “Daddy.” Libby took a step back and turned to where Rose stood beside her. “This is my best friend, Rose. The one I’ve told you about.”

  “Rose, nice to meet you. I was wondering if the train would be on time today. There was a shipment of coffee rations and such that came in yesterday. It was fifteen minutes late. It seems they can’t keep on schedule anymore.”

  “Well, we may be a few minutes late, but I’ll be around for quite a while.” Libby shuffled as she took small steps forward.

  Her father grasped her other arm, and Libby heard him sniffle beside her. He released his grasp and blew his nose into his handkerchief.

  “Well, one thing’s for sure.” Libby tried to make her tone light. “You always said I do everything with gusto, and when I hit my head, I did it up right.”

  Her father led her to his old truck, and they squeezed into the cab—Libby in the middle. It smelled of old vinyl and dust. It also smelled of her father’s favorite soap.

  I’m home.

  She didn’t need her eyes to know what streets they were turning down. She could almost anticipate every pothole.

  Her dad patted Libby’s knee. “I swear, every time you’re set to come home, the phone is ringing off the hook. A few of your pilot friends have called to check on you. And your boyfriend’s mother. Is it Ima Jean?”

  “Yes, Ima Jean. It will be great to hear from her.”

  “Oh, and someone named Anna-Lou called and said she was heading out West to visit some distant relatives, and she’d stop by to see you.”

  “Anna-Lou. Do you mean Annabelle?”

  “Yes, Annabelle, that’s right.”

  “She’s really coming?” Libby took Rose’s hand and squeezed. “Anyone else call?”

  Her father was silent as he turned on the final road and parked on the gravel patch in front of their house. “Only your mother, but I remembered how your la
st meeting went, and I told her not to bother you again.”

  Rose climbed from the truck and helped Libby do the same.

  “Did you get a number where I could reach her?”

  “Now, girl, why would I take a number?”

  “Just wondering.” The truck door made a loud slam. “There’s a whole lot of reconsidering I’ve been doing lately.”

  Libby lay in her childhood bed, and outside the window a songbird sang. She had returned. And the same feelings of aloneness and abandonment stirred within. She felt five again, waiting for the sun to come up in hopes the next day would be brighter. Only this time, even with eyes wide open, there was no brightness to look forward to.

  To make matters worse, Annabelle had called to say she couldn’t make it after all.

  “Howie broke his leg. Of all things! I’m so sorry, Libby.”

  Instead, her friend had sent a set of Scripture cards, and Libby forced her father to read them repeatedly until she’d memorized every word.

  “Come, behold the works of the Lord, what desolations he hath made in the earth,” Libby whispered. “He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder; he burneth the chariot in the fire. Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.”

  But oh, how hard it was to be still! And confusing too. Hadn’t her part in the war effort mattered to God? Wasn’t she doing the right thing by freeing a pilot to fight?

  “Lord.” She let her hands smooth the quilt around her bed. “I can’t get much lower than this. I feel useless just lying here.”

  Be still and know.

  Be still and pray.

  Those were the messages that continued to stir inside her.

  Libby lifted the bandages from her eyes and looked around the room. It was clear for a moment. But as soon as she lifted her head to find the bird in the trees, the room around her spun, and she felt a rush of nausea.

  “No!” Libby punched the mattress beneath her. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”