The boat clattered noisily against the wharf in the still, pre-dawn light. The hiss of oars in the water of the Thames fell silent. The sailors pulled the boat closer to the dock with the oars, then docked them and tied off the lines. The only passenger of the small, blocky craft rose to his feet in awe of the stretch of city before him.

London has never been considered the most beautiful of the world’s prosperous cities. Still, it holds about it a subtle air of mystery within its smoky, lamp-lit streets. It was this mystery that caught and held Gregory Sytimoore in rapt attention, held him fast as he gazed deep into the maze of ancient buildings and the spread of history contained within. Unconsciously, he climbed from the boat, clutching his single traveling bag, the bottles inside clinking.

It had been so long since he had last laid eyes on the cramped, crowded, wonderful city of London. Little had changed—the streets were cluttered cobblestone walkways, and the buildings were shabbier than ever. He recalled where the university was, and strode through the streets.

He blended in with the denizens of London—his face, though tanned, held the same complexion, and his hair was bleached to a sandy brown. His eyes were a clear crystal blue like the sky at midday on the Mediterranean. Few people were out at this hour, and the ones who ventured into the street barely glanced at him before continuing on their way. He looked down at his paint-speckled trousers and besmeared shirt, tugging vainly at his dark leather jacket to conceal them.

When the university appeared before him at the top of a long, grassy knoll, he sighed with relief. He remembered the way. He paced towards it, contentment growing in him. This was his home! The walls of knowledge closed in around him, and the tension of his travels drained from him. He slowed to a walk, gawking around at the carvings of Aristotle and Newton and Einstein as if they were new to him.

He turned a corner and slammed into someone. His bag went flying as he sprawled across the floor. Looking up, he saw a tall, elderly man pick himself up. With long-fingered hands, the man smoothed his silvery hair, brushed off his clothes, and resettled his glasses. He then peered with disapproval over them at Gregory.

His expression promptly turned to surprise. “Gregory?!” he exclaimed, incredulous.

“Mr. Bellingham!” Gregory stared. The man, who had been his tutor a dozen years ago, before Gregory had gone traveling to the Middle East and Africa, had aged dramatically in the past half dozen years. He scrambled to his feet, eagerly wringing Bellingham’s hand in greeting. Then he lurched over to his bag and examined the contents.

The jars were whole, if shaken—the brilliant colors within were well mixed. The brushes were chipped from the escapade, but generally fine. Bellingham peered over his shoulder. “Paints?” he queried. “You’ve kept it up, then?” Gregory had painted everything in college.

“Of course. This,” he swept his hand at the bag, “Is what I do. This is my life!” He straightened then. “Are my rooms still intact? I need a place to stay for a while, until I get my feet back under me.” Most students lived in flats within the university while they settled into college life.

“Your rooms haven’t been touched. They haven’t even been cleaned. Nobody knew what to do with them when you… disappeared.” Bellingham gestured to him, and the two of them strolled through the university. “Gregory, why didn’t you send us word, or inform someone where you were going? I wasn’t the only one to find your absence unsettling. We almost called out Scotland Yard.”

Gregory frowned. “I was sure I left word with someone. No matter, I’m back now.” They had reached his rooms, and he unlocked the door.

The room swam thick with dust, and the bitter stink of old paint settled into his nostrils. He choked, hurried to the single window, drew the shades, and threw it open. Below him, the river ran past his window, a river of golden light.

“Where did you go, Gregory?” Bellingham asked.

He leaned on the sill and stared downward. At the very edge of the city, the sun rose with all of its morning splendor, washing the buildings with warm, brilliant colours and setting the Thames afire with light. He breathed deep of the sweet air and turned about abruptly, going to the dusty easel that still stood in the center of the room. He tacked up a piece of canvas and arranged his paints and brushes in the tray. Scowling briefly at the canvas, he glanced out at the river, and began to reenact that sunrise with brush, colour, and skill.

“I went to Zion,” he said as he painted, his brush dipping swiftly in and out and swirling the paints together to spread them across the easel. The blocky boats appeared, and then the river, with a wavering backdrop of skyscrapers. His skill had not faded in his travels. The reality in his painting was offset by the quaint touch of oddness that he threw into his strokes.

Back and forth with the brush.

“You went where?” Bellingham was puzzled.

“Zion. Yisroel, Jerusalem, the Holy Land. I went to the home of my ancestors.” The brush did not stop moving. The painting took on a tone of tenderness and surrealism in the reflection of colours on the now-vibrant canvas.

“What was it like?” Bellingham ventured, engrossed in Gregory’s painting.

“The land seemed… weary. Tired of fighting for her rights and her children. Besmeared with the blood of thousands. But still she will fight on.” His mouth was a grim line as he remembered the sadness and the pain he had seen in the ravaged homeland of his culture. His painting grew more furious; anger showed in the strokes.

He painted the world as he saw it and felt it, the way it appeared to him. He painted it with all the cruelty he had seen, the compassion he felt. He painted with rough, slow strokes and quick smooth ones. He painted pain and sorrow; he painted joy and exultation.

He painted with his heart and soul.