{"id":1085,"date":"2019-02-12T13:10:02","date_gmt":"2019-02-12T18:10:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/read.whitefire-publishing.com\/?p=1085"},"modified":"2020-06-01T09:07:01","modified_gmt":"2020-06-01T13:07:01","slug":"the-promise-of-dawn","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/the-promise-of-dawn\/","title":{"rendered":"The Promise of Dawn"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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The Promise of Dawn<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

by Dianne Price<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

World War Two is over, but there\u2019s much rebuilding to be done on the wee Scottish isle of Innisbraw. Now a wife and mother, Maggie Savage longs for other lasses to return to their island home, but how can they when there is no way to provide for themselves and their families? Her husband, Rob, driven by his unrelenting dream to build a rescue boat for the local fishermen, continues to be plagued by nightmares of impending disaster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Will their simple faith in God and love for each other help them find a new dawn for their beloved community?<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t

Chapter 1<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t

Isle of Innisbraw, Outer Hebrides, Scotland<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

August, 1945<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ll never fly again.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The glow\nof peat embers glinted off the silver colonel\u2019s eagle Rob Savage held in his\npalm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Heaving a\nragged sigh, Rob re-pinned it to the shoulder of his American Air Forces blouse\nand ran his hand over rows of ribbons below the wings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nine hours\nago he\u2019d worn that blouse with his uniform for the last time\u2014to the special\nservice held at the kirk when word reached the island that the war with Japan\nwas over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rob closed\nhis eyes. Would he ever overcome his grief at receiving a medical discharge? A\ngraduate of West Point, career officer, full bird colonel in charge of the 396th<\/sup>\nHeavy Bomber Group … and now he couldn\u2019t fly. The ache to return to his days\npiloting a B-17 bomber brought a yearning so profound he fought tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Aye,\nInnisbraw was his home now\u2014a wee, green island peopled by all the folk he\nconsidered family<\/a>. But to fly again, to chase the clouds, to fling off earthly\nfetters and lose himself in a sky so blue it seared itself into the deepest\nrecesses of his brain …<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His dog,\nShep, pressed a cold nose into Rob\u2019s palm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWant a\nrun, lad?\u201d He pushed himself to his feet. \u201c\u2019Tis verra early, but I\u2019m thinking\nwe both could use the exercise.\u201d He laid the blouse over the back of his\nrocker, padded over to the large window in the kitchen, and lifted a corner of\nthe lace curtain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A bruised,\ndusky-grey sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2019Tis\nlight enough to see the path.\u201d He bent and rubbed the Australian shepherd\u2019s\nsilken ears. \u201cOn you come, then.\u201d He let the dog out and eased the door closed\nso as not to awaken his wife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maggie,\nbiggen with their second bairn, was a light sleeper and didn\u2019t deserve to be\nawoken before their laddie, Robbie, called for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Footsteps\nmuffled in the heavy pre-dawn air, Rob walked along the stone-flagged path\nthrough Maggie\u2019s garden to the front gate set in the drystone dyke surrounding\ntheir home. His slow trot soon became a long, loping run as he and Shep covered\nthe path down the slope of Innis Fell toward the harbour below. The chilly\nearly morning air brought hen\u2019s flesh coursing up his arms beneath his light,\nlong-sleeved Jacobite shirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The waters of\nthe Minch beyond the harbour shone inky-black with glimmers of white\nsplintering the tops of the waves. Above the horizon, an occasional star\nblinked a faint protest before being swallowed by the slowly brightening sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The path\nwas deserted. At a bit gone 0400, even the fishermen, always the first to be up\nand about, were still abed or savouring their first cup of tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shep and\nRob ran past the infirmary, Elspeth NicAllister\u2019s cottage, the path to the\nMacPhee croft, and the stone buildings housing the post office, howff, and\nweaving shop on the inland side. Past the piers, the old herring-packing shed,\nand five tiny, thatched, stone cottages lining the harbour. He turned the wide\ncorner where the path followed the contour of the island and headed west toward\nthe Atlantic shore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As he ran,\nRob fought to blank out any negative thoughts. This was a time to renew his\nbody and mind. The kirk to his left was unlit, but a soft light shone from one\nof the windows in the manse. Surely Hugh MacEwan, the island\u2019s minister, also\nfound sleep difficult after such an emotional<\/a> day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For most\nof the islanders, the war had ended with the surrender of Germany the previous\nMay, bringing an end to the guards walking the shore at night, to fears of\nbeing shelled from the Atlantic, to dreading the fate of their uniformed lads.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Hugh\nwas one of the few who recognized the high cost of American lives in the\nPacific Theatre. Most likely, he was deep in the Word at this time of the\nmorning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sheep\nand the coo gangs of the large crofts Rob passed were hushed, nature holding\nher chilled breath until the first rays of sun flooded land and sky with\nwarmth. Only a friendly bowf from one of Alec MacDonald\u2019s herding dogs and the\nthroaty pruk-pruk<\/em> of a raven broke the silent dawn. But when the path\nturned south, the muted roar of the Atlantic breaking against the western shore\ngave voice to one of God\u2019s masterpieces.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sweet\nscent of heather spilled down the slopes of nearby Ben Innis. The same fragrance\nhad drawn him to his Maggie more than three years ago. He didn\u2019t have to close\nhis eyes to remember how she looked that night in the officer\u2019s club at\nEdenoaks Air Base. He stood a little over six-five, but she was so tiny the top\nof her head didn\u2019t even reach his shoulder. Her luxurious black hair in a\nregulation bun above her RAF Nurses\u2019 Corps uniform collar \u2026 startling\nviolet-blue eyes seldom meeting his gaze \u2026 petite body stiff with obvious\nembarrassment that the commander of the base had asked her\u2014a Scots nurse loaned\nto the base hospital\u2014to dance. All of those traits attractive, but the\nprovocative, warm-honey scent of heather clinging to her skin and hair captured\nhis heart with the first breath. If he lived to be a hundred, that meeting\nwould still be burned into his memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His\nbrogans juddered on the wooden planks as long strides took him across a bridge.\nThe wide burn, its pebbled bottom hidden beneath dark, peaty water, ran toward\nthe sea. Twa mute swans glided silently across the near-black surface of Loch\nDomhnall, hurrying their seven grey cygnets to the safety of the far shore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shep still\nran at his side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLooks\nlike they\u2019ve been taking herding lessons from you, lad.\u201d Rob upped his pace. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were\nno macadam or even gravel roads, only a wide, sandy path leading around the\nisland. And no automobiles or trucks, just wooden cairts pulled by small,\nshaggy horses the Scots called \u201ccuddies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At first,\nhe\u2019d been horrified by that. What a difference three years made. Now walking or\nrunning everywhere, he reveled as his senses were overwhelmed by the smells of\nheather, salty sea, and peaty bogs. Amid emerald green girse, brilliant\nwildflowers waved for attention between the ever-present grey rocks. Sheep and\ncoos grazed voraciously or lay in groups, chewing their cuds. And the sounds: pewlie\nand black-headed gulls keening on high, the barking of the seals lounging on\nthe large, flat rocks cluttering the shoreline, and the constant hollow boom of\nwaves crashing against the steep, craggy cliffs of the fells. The taste of\nsalted sea air brought saliva to his mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was\nwhy he ran before sunup every other day. Not only did it strengthen his legs,\nbut it was a time to concentrate on all his blessings from God. At last, the\nwar was over. His body was almost as strong as ever after innumerable surgeries\nand months of therapy to repair the broken bones and torn muscles suffered in\nhis last B-17 crash. He had a new life with his love, his Maggie. And though he\ncouldn\u2019t fly, he could focus on building a rescue boat for those who\nencountered trouble at sea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Och, why\ndid his bonnie lass put up with his impatience to build the boat? To blow\nthrough the constant impediments life put in his way?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He crossed\nanother bridge and gazed over the machair. Vast stretches of wildflowers\ncompeted with the green girse while smaller areas, separated by low drystone\ndykes, rippled in varying shades of green and yellow as oats and barley\nstretched their slim stalks toward rain and sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Should he\nbecome a crofter, toiling in the soil or raising sheep or coos, instead of\nopening the Innisbraw Boatworks? Or even a fisherman, spending his days at sea\non a trawler?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Och, Faither, give me Your peace,\nplease. I know You brought me to Innisbraw to build the rescue boat so our\nfishermen could have help in time of need and to provide work for our island\nlads, but right now, I\u2019m so whummled I don\u2019t ken what to do. I need that lumber\nfrom the States, Lord, and with rationing still tight, I don\u2019t ken where I\u2019m\ngoing to find all the necessary fittings and hardware.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shep cut\nin front of him, turned up a tiny path heading over Ben Innis, and veered off\nthrough the yellow gorse and purple heather in pursuit of a rabbit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instead of\nwhistling the dog back, Rob gave chase. He hadn\u2019t been over the ben for several\nweeks and the view from the top always sent his blood racing. Fifteen minutes\nlater he reached the summit, placed twa fingers in his mouth, and gave a shrill\nwhistle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Within\nseconds, Shep appeared out of the underbrush, flanks heaving, blue eyes begging\nfor praise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell done,\n… you,\u201d Rob panted as he rubbed the dog\u2019s furry ruff.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shep nosed\naround for a soft spot to lie down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rob leaned\nagainst one of the four ancient stone megaliths towering above them. When\nbreathing came easy, he walked around the stones, trailing his fingers over\nweathered inscriptions, faint and rendered undecipherable by hundreds or\nperhaps thousands of years of wind and rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Below, a\nfew lazy drifts of smoke from peat fireplaces and stoves curled around thatched\ncottage roofs. Burns, wide and narrow, fed from underground springs, tumbled in\nwild abandon toward level ground. The sea surrounding the island pulsed in\nnever-ending waves against the rocky shore. And all around, heather bushes\nrustled as birds and other small creatures stirred at the dawning of another\nday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If the\nLord had called him home to heaven during the war, this was where he would have\nbeen buried\u2014the bonniest place on earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The vast,\nendless sky grew a luminescent, pearly grey as the sun inched toward birth over\nthe Atlantic on the Minch side, wild and unfettered from horizon to horizon. To\nthe south lay Ireland, only a soft smudge of purple floating on an inky sea. A\nrising wind played a haunting song around the ben\u2019s stone sentinels. So\nfamiliar, that song. The same melody that had played through the wing-wires of\nhis Stearman PT-17 bi-plane when he was learning to fly. Tears choked his\nthroat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was bad\nenough giving up his flying career, but if his fears about the rescue boat\nsinking when she was launched came true \u2026 He fisted his hands. Please help me, Lord. \u2019Tis Your plan. Don\u2019t\nlet me believe the De\u2019il\u2019s sly whispers in the night. Help me believe she\u2019ll\nfloat.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n