The unbreaking of Islah Long

Far North, a small village
by river and wood.
A heardsman's small shack
near a field humbly stood.

Long since passed his wife
but before she did part
bore the herdsman's three lasses
with beauty and heart.

He raised them like sheep
and long broken their song.
the youngest of daughters,
the fair Islah Long.

Dark were her eyes
ever lowered they fixed
for without defense
of the old herdsman's tricks.

As for the herdsmans command,
"be not strong"
and so went the breaking
of young Islah Long

So, married by 14
to one going gray
like prized fatted calf
not a word did she say.

By 16, her duties,
well learned by her lord.
A subservient missus
well kept on a cord.

One day, into town
past a young riders side
caught the eye of young Islah
who matched him in stride

His eyes met her gaze,
they were much like his own,
transfixed for a moment
like calling her home

He beckoned her come,
having rode for a while,
he drew from her lips
a kind halfhearted smile.

And so took her with him
and pulling her near
compelled by a sadness
that caused her such fear.

He promised her boldly,
twas safe to become.
With a tear and a wail,
Islah no longer numb

Unable to serve him
her deeds he refused,
a beast died within her
twas no longer used.

He taught her to ride
and she took to the task.
Her legs gripped the steed
As she rode hard and fast

She longed and she lusted,
she howled with a throng.
And so, the untaming
of wild Islah Long

Her hair long and flowing,
now eyes bold and raised
these were the sweetest
of young Islah's days

No rules left to follow
No answers to owe
No sorrow, surrender
or lamenting woe

Making love in the medow
perfection and song,
gave his soul did the rider
to sweet Islah Long

Living on hillside
and riding through moor
The babe of the rider
inside her she bore

Proud was the father
and prouder his mate
but neaither aware
of a near future fate

Very soon the young rider
grew weary and ill
by his side the fair Islah
attended him still

And though strong and able,
She knew not what to do
and so, by and by
one last breath, he withdrew.

"I will not leave your side love,
I never shall leave.
By your grave I will stay,
to your soul I shall cleave"

A hovel she built there
and spoke to the wind
bound by a promise
she never would bend

And still,
even after her body had died
Her spirit was seen
on that old countryside

Hair wild and flowing
with eyes to the sun
reminding the youth
to leave nothing undone

So consider the tame,
and consider the strong
recall the unbreaking
of old Islah Long

Scene 17, Considering lilies The Seed.

On Anne’s large bit of property in the city, lies a small glass conservatory where Anne keeps and tends her own personal collection of rare and unusual botanical specimens. Anne and Sylvia share a drink in this small greenhouse. Discussing the matter of Neil Breslyn’s recent exodus from the Breslyn family. The topic, having been exhausted, Sylvia turns her attention to her current surroundings. The glasshouse is small, but it is clean and smells of what could only be described as peat moss. The air is warm and slightly humid, which makes it the perfect haven from the cold night air outside. There are two glass lanterns which are lit, one by the entry way and one in the center of the makeshift plywood table at which they are presently sitting. The modest glow of the two lights is enough to illuminate the entire house and the lights reflect off of the walls of glass. Anne tells Sylvia of her botanical treasures.
By the entryway there is a large shelf of books on the topic of horticulture. The books are worn and seem to have been studied and put to good use. Many have been marked and labeled with the reader’s commentary.
The ground is covered with small gravel stones, which crunch beneath walking feet. The plants in the house sit linearly and tidily on pine plywood tables, which have been built longitudily against the south facing length of the house.
The plants are, at present, separated by their environmental requirements. There is a xerophytes shelf by the entryway bookshelf, on which her collection of cacti sits, obviously thriving. In the back left-hand corner there is a table filled with epiphytes; Orchids of unusual shapes and speckled colors and bromeliads whose flowers resemble the tops of spinney pineapple fruits and long reptilian like patterns showing in shades from the most flamboyant reds to cool purples.
In the center table is the terrestrial collection. This was the largest portion of her collection, as their needs were most conducive to the conditions of her small arrangement. Within this section there was an area for Mediterranean specimens like Salvias, and Olive tree; a woodland portion, which was placed under the tables, on the ground for its low light high, moisture requirements. The untrained eye would not have noticed Anne’s arrangement, but for such a small greenhouse her organization was impeccable, and the health of her collection was proof of that.
Sylvia pretends not to be impressed, but even she can’t help but survey her surroundings with something of a sense of awe.
Unimpressed Sylvia teases….

Sylvia: (walking toward the back of the greenhouse, slowly surveying each specimen)
As pretty as some of your treasures may be, I’m afraid that I can’t beyond the vanity of it all enough to appreciate what you do in here.

Anne: (sharply) It’s not just the look of them that I love, it’s the way they behave and the…
(At a loss, walks to the center table.)
…Well, take this one for instance, a common daisy.
She is very forgiving to poor treatment and blooms profusely for long amounts of time. She is a faithful friend, sturdy and long lived. Most of my colleagues would turn their nose up at such a common thing, but I can’t help but value her for the way she grows…

Sylvia: Alright, now you’re making a bit of sense here miss Anne, go on show us another.

Anne: (Now somewhat bolder) Alright, well this one here is called Sarauma henrii. To be honest with you I didn’t care for him at first, you see he is very subtle. But when I looked closer I noticed many ways that he was unique. Sulfur yellow flower bearing only three petals, perfectly placed atop fine gray green heart shaped leaves. I admit that my notice of him was no love affair, but at the time nobody else had heard of him, let alone grew him So, I imagined that I could make quite a name for myself being the one to introduce him to our little horticultural community.
But he is difficult and stubborn to grow from seed. I must have laid thousands of seeds to sow, but to this day only three have sprouted and grown.
I can tell you today that it has been his stubbornness and indifference to my efforts that have caused me to lust after him all the more, and my inability to master him has made me favor him over most others.

Sylvia: (Quietly musing as she listens)
Oh no Anne! You’re in for one hell of a ride if that that’s the way to win your heart! (Beat)
What about this one here, there MUST be a story behind him?
(Pointing to a small, plain pine.)

Anne: Why do you say that?

Sylvia: Well you don’t keep it around for its good looks I can see that plain…

Anne: (Suddenly serious, Sylvia has discovered the heart of Anne’s collection)
I sowed that seed when my father died.
The seed of this plant must be submerged into boiling water. Next it must be cut with a very sharp blade in a few spots on the outer shell. Then rubbed with very course sandpaper over the entire surface, finally it must be thrown into the fire for just long enough, but not too long.
(Anne takes a large seed from the table top, next to the plant and hand it to Sylvia.)
You see the outer shell is so thick and hard that it is like a stone. The wearing down and breaking of this exterior is necessary so that light, water and earth can to enter into the heart of the seed, because that is where its life will begin.

Sylvia: And I accused you of vanity….
(Pouring a second shot for the two of them)
…shame on me!
(Sylvia raises her glass, as does Anne)
To the language of flowers!

Scene 16b

There is little that can be said about the leaving of Neil Breslyn. For what can be said about a man who leaves his family after he has promised them for better or for worse? He was not a scoundrel or a criminal. He held his tongue, probably for years, and did right by his family for the most part. But weather it was the holding of his tongue or the doing right, without turn or reward, he had grown tired of it all. Weary of his role as husband and father, he had allowed himself to question his vows to his wife, and he had even questioned weather or not he had really wanted all those children. Somewhere, in all the questioning and blaming, he had decided that leaving was perhaps not the worst fate he might face in his life. The tempering of his final decision to leave had happened over time. But having long laid on his conscience, as it did, he had already been wearing the shoes of a man who had abandoned his family.