Bit of Dreaming

I remember being impressed at how clean the prayer fountain was, compared to the state of order in the rest of the house. Someone must be very attentive. Not a single wilting bloom littered the water, the bottom pool was clear. I collected a few of the tall, dark purple lily blossoms from the planters surrounding the fountain. Brushed away a web or two off the plants I gathered them from. I held the flower up to the light, the tiny veins of it caught between me and the rays of the sunset streaming in through the dingy glass. The ribbing of the blossom was meticulous, an alternating pattern of long, even grooves up the sides, clear to the long pointed lip. It was a gorgeous flower, a perfect purple cup. The long yellow stamen only barely reaching past the brim. I collected three and returned to the fountain.

The fountain itself was a large structure, larger than I expected to find when he led me back to the humid, glass room. Rectangular, deep, the central pool was dark, covered in slow ripples from the constant recycling of water. It stood higher than my waist, about three and a half feet tall, four feet from me to the other side, and six or seven feet for the length of it. Six statues stood in the pool, heads bowed, staring expectantly at their open hands as the water passed through their curved fingers. One on each corner, and two in the middle of each of the two longest sides. The water overflowed from the deep center, cascading over each tall side of the pool into the second shallow pool that made up the base of it. A foot tall, and a foot wider on each side, it was less a pool and more a large lower lip.

There were small water lilies growing in both sections of the fountain. Magenta, that deep pink color, pointed and many-petaled with soft white centers tucked away inside. The lilies in the middle of the fountain floated patiently, bobbing with the slow flow of water, while the lilies in the bottom pool were consistent and eager, crowding each other against the edges to avoid the long splash of falling streams, a little more frenzied in their rush for avoidance, than their solemn counterparts in the pool above.

He had left the room for a moment, I wasn't sure his reason, but I didn't seem to mind. I carefully placed my deep purple blossoms, into the open hands of the corner statue nearest me. Her blank stone eyes stared past them, as if they weren't there, neither acknowledging nor appreciating the small gift. The water running through her hands pushed the lilies up against her parted fingers, which greedily held them from falling into the lower pool, but which were also still open enough as if to say: More. I am not satisfied.

Suddenly, three blossoms did not seem enough for the prayers that we needed, and I collected three more for each statue in turn, and even deposited three each in the deep water of the central pool and managed to fit three in the midst of the crowding lilies at the foot pool.

He finally returned as I was cleaning the cobwebs and dead petals out of the flower pots that looked significantly stragglier now that I robbed them of so many of the proud purple blooms. In apology and gratitude for their abundance, I had wanted to make them a bit more presentable, and was in the midst of contemplating heading off in search for a good thick cleaning rag and some spray to scrub the layers of wet grime and dust of the panes of glass. A fountain like this one deserved a setting as dignified as itself, and currently it looked out of place in what might as well have been a little-used greenhouse shed in the back of some old English manor long bereft of both tenants and gardener.

Quietly, he came to my side, tugging my shirt to get my attention, and I turned to him as his eyes strayed to the fountain and he counted the measure of my devotion in the number of blooms. He looked amused and even a little condescendingly at the blossoms. They were of little significance for so great and dire a cause, and I couldn't help but feel briefly that he thought my pious efforts little more than childish fancy and long years of habit.

But then, he looked back at me, devotedly. All traces of amusement and complacency gone, clutched my hand tight in his, and we left the room.