Lily of peace

I am healthy, well-tended, and have nothing to complain about here on the glossy, white windowsill, with nourishing light and space to unfurl my leaves. I am fed and watered by a loving hand, as if the owner of that hand believes that looking after a Peace Lily will bring peace into her home, not to mention the rest of the world on the other side of the glass.

I was just one plant, but when I grew too big for my pot earlier this year, she split my roots, and now we are five siblings, all with our own windows: three in this house, and the other two infusing her friends’ homes with their aura of tranquility.

We are not like people. They need to move around, with their legs and cars. Our roots keep us firmly attached to the earth beneath us so that we merge with that place and become a part of it. Why would we want to move elsewhere when there is so much to be seen and felt here already? The family comes and goes. I hear their conversations, share their rejoicing, and commiserate in their sadness. I watch the children playing, listen to the adults reasoning, and see the changing seasons indoors and out – the shifting shapes and colours of trees and flowers, the peoples’ clothes that adapt to suit the temperature, the striped arches of rainbows in the sky, and the alternating sun and moon. Christmas trees and candles brighten the dark winter months, while summer days are quiet in the house, as everyone goes out to enjoy the warm weather, and afterwards they all come home bringing the sunshine with them in their smiles. Cars glide one way and the other on the road outside, taking people here and there, to work, adventures, and everywhere else. From time to time, they would do well to stop and be still for a while, watching and listening. They could learn so much.

Every few weeks, I send up a flower – a pure white sail on a tall, green mast, with a cream-powdered beacon in the centre. The bloom shines its peace-light into the room and out of the window. Each time, I can see the delight in her eyes, as if it is unexpected, and she hadn’t realised I could produce another one. She seems genuinely honoured and awed by its presence in her home. And that makes the effort worthwhile. From time to time she strokes my long, smooth-ridged leaves as she gazes out of the window, lost in thought, and I wonder what she is thinking about.

After a few weeks, the peace-white turns to living-green and I busy myself with preparing a new stem for my next masterpiece.

I wish she would talk to me, though. I love the feel of her eyes on my leaves, and the companionship as she reads, draws, or sews in the chair beside me is precious. I hear the children reading their school books and practising their music, and I sense that I am part of the family. But I yearn for the vibrations of her voice, and long for her to tell me her secrets, showing me what her spirit holds. What is behind the flickering, ever-changing expressions which sweep across her face? Why does the mouth curl into smiles, and from which spring do the tears trickle down her cheeks?

One morning, she sits on the chair by the window in the sunlight, a pad of paper on her lap, and begins to draw me. She is calm, but I sense a hint of tension in her distracted concentration. The pencil moves carefully around the page, its lines deliberate yet restrained, despite the air of urgency which now permeates the room, setting my roots on edge. Then she moves to the table at the other end of the room and starts to paint. Each gentle stroke of the brush is a gesture of profound love, and her picture is not only an image with colours and water, but an outpouring of something from deep within her soul.

The next day, she does not come. Nor the next. The others are still here, but their faces are grey and lined. There is no sparkle in their voices, and their movements are minimal and heavy. The sun and moon exchange places again and again, and still she is not there. My soil is watered from time to time, but I am thirsty. A living thing needs more than water. I try to keep myself occupied by fashioning a new flower, but I just cannot make it happen. Something is lacking, and without it, creation cannot occur. The green of my leaves fades to a sickly brown and I struggle to hold them up to embrace the light.

Someone has hung the painting on the wall above her chair. The silver frame reflects the sun’s rays from the east, splitting them into smaller beams which slice through the shadowy air in the room. A white flower rises up from a crowd of verdant foliage against an azure background, every leaf painted differently with its own shade and pattern of veins, as a unique part of the same whole.

Resting in the bottom corner, is a single dried, fallen leaf. On its curled tip, a round, watery smudge blurs the edge of the image. A tear, preserved forever in paint. It is then that I realise – she has spoken to me at last.

Seeing the music

Doreen picked up the letter from the doormat and walked into the front room. Sitting down in her usual armchair, she peered at the postmark through her thick-lensed glasses and sighed. The pendulum clock on the wall ticked and tocked as it had always done, and she hesitated, putting off the inevitable for a few moments longer.

The room was small and mostly tidy, but with just enough disorder to make it feel homely. To the left of the armchair with its antimacassar crocheted with crotchets, was an old upright piano, the lid open to reveal yellowing keys, and several books of sheet music crammed onto the stand. On top of the piano was an antique, wooden metronome, and a modern, compact CD player. The opposite wall was covered with shelves heaving with scores, song books, classical collections, and a neat row of CDs, and beside these, a violin case rested on a dining chair.

Music had been a constant and faithful companion throughout Doreen’s life. She had learned the piano and violin as a child, and spent her working years as a peripatetic teacher, driving around from school to school and sharing her love of music all over the county. Her husband had been musical, too – a piano tuner – and they had met when he came to tune the piano in one of the schools where she had worked. So, their piano had always been in tune. Just like their marriage.

It was ten years now since Derek had passed away, not long after retiring. They had no children, so Doreen had found herself alone for the first time. She was a strong person, though, and had built a new life for herself, playing in a local orchestra, accompanying rehearsals for the amateur operatic society, and helping at the youth music centre in town.

Thank goodness she had her car. Without it, the half-hour drive into town would become almost impossible. The distance between her home and her musical life would be like an impenetrable barrier. There was a bus service, but only twice a day. People would surely offer her lifts, but she would hate to be forced to rely on the goodwill of others. Her car was her freedom. A lifeline.

Now it was the clock, not the metronome, beating time in the room. That same rhythm had accompanied many a melody over the years. It would not stop now, and neither should she. She must open the envelope and face the music with dignity.

Slowly, but determined, she tore the edge and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Her face was steeled, its features unmoving, as she read the letter. Then she folded it and put it back inside the envelope. She sniffed and brushed aside a single tear.

It was her eyesight. Her frail eyes had failed their test and she was no longer allowed to drive. A wall rose up around her, blocking the road to anywhere, and drawing a double bar-line at the end of the music.

Prince Vladimir

Prince Vladimir rode his horse a short distance beyond the city and then stopped. Turning around, he gazed at Kiev and imagined what it might soon become. History books have remembered the cold facts about this powerful ruler, but they have forgotten the person behind them, who now sat alone on his mount, reflecting on the decision he had just made. He had consulted with many advisors, but the weight of responsibility ultimately rested on him alone. It was his burdensome duty to move the country forward and prepare her glorious destiny. That would mean making changes, though, and he felt small and insignificant in the face of the task which he had now resolved to accomplish.

In the distance the sapphire ribbon of the Dniepr sparkled in the light of daybreak, and the silhouette of a small ship glided downstream, bearing its load of grain towards the Black Sea. The Greeks had worshipped the river as a life-bringing god, Borysthenes, whose daughter was one of the three muses. The lives of all those who lived along its banks did indeed depend on its waters, and it was a vital transport and trade link for Kiev, so Vladimir knew it was a key which could unlock greatness of this country. But this waterway alone, however formidable, was not enough. A key is useless without a hand to turn it.

He was sure the sobriety of Islam would not suit the people of Rus, and the Jews had failed to convince him that their God favoured them. Catholicism was not a good fit, either. Byzantium, however, was reportedly as much like heaven as earth, and the ineffable beauty of its Divine Liturgy was ideal. Kiev would be the new Byzantium. Vladimir would abandon his Pagan roots and be baptised. Then all of Rus would follow his worthy example and be united in a common faith. Unity would bring power, and Rus would flourish.

As he looked on, mind racing and heart pounding, a gentle breeze caressed his face, ruffling his beard and brushing away all remnants of doubt. The early morning sun beamed down from a blue sky, warming his conviction and energising him for the mission ahead.

It was time. Time to baptise Rus.