The Shepherd

7

Simon Shepherd was a complicated man. He knew it, but reversing that role would be pointless. It was a chore to try and relate to Oliver, who was simple and short-sided. Despite this, it was a burden he had brought upon himself. He had to remember that.

He was in the comfort of his bedroom and office. It was perhaps the coziest room in the house. It had a wide, soft bed in the middle, an elegant love seat that had seen little use for years, several desks and nightstands dotted all around, cluttered with papers and photos and books. His drawers were overflowing from the many papers and things stuffed into them. His book collection was extensive, containing a long list of rare editions and volumes— some of which were in different languages— scattered within the hundreds of books on the shelf. It was a collection fit for its owner, for no one enjoyed the comforts and pleasures of reading more than Mr. Shepherd. Recent outbursts of migraines, however, had kept him from reading too much. It saddened him greatly, but he didn't dwell too much on it. There was no point in wallowing. Besides, he had medication to help with the migraines.

Mr. Shepherd was sitting at his desk, studying a large map. It was old and detailed and sprawled across a good portion of the huge, oak desk. His eyes glossed over every little detail repeatedly, but he did it slowly so he didn't miss or forget anything. He did this for several minutes. Finally, he succumbed to fatigue and boredom, and he let his head tilt forward. The dim radiance from the lamp in the corner of the desk soothed his aching head. He slowly rose from his chair and, leaning hard on his cane, went to the nightstand to grab his mediation. Pill one, swallow; pill two, swallow. It took a minute for the medicine to work, but it did. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he sat down and leaned back in his chair. When he did, the desk shook slightly and a piece of fluttered from one of his overflowing drawers. Curious, he retrieved it and looked it over once or twice. It was a letter scribbled in swooping, almost unreadable cursive. The date revealed that it had been written in October of the previous year. At the bottom, the letter was signed with two cursive names, reading Lara and Tom.

Lara and Tom, he thought. He smiled and looked through the letter again. He needed to focus, but the names and the letter called to him. He couldn't put it down. Suddenly, he heard a knock at the door. It was loud and harsh, and he knew exactly who it was at the door. Nevertheless, the noise had startled him and he quickly shoved the thin paper back into some drawer.

Oliver had found the room after a great deal of wandering around the house. He had grown tired of seeing the same thing over and over again. The only thing that differentiated the hallways were the hangings on the walls. He enjoyed studying the many unique and interesting paintings, but, like so many other things, it bored him after a while. He had caught sight of a maid hurriedly sweeping the entrance of a room and asked her where he might find Mr. Shepherd. She said that after dinner, in the late hours of the night, he spent his time in his bedroom. He hid his amusement of the phrase "late hours". The clock in the hallway read seven p.m. Some poorly given instructions and more wandering had taken him here, to a thick and sturdy oak door. It was almost as elegant as the front door, which could not be matched in beauty or size. It was at the end of a short hallway some distance from the stairs. In a way, it was hidden from the rest of the house, cut off from anything and everything else. When Oliver reached the door he glanced briefly at an oil painting hanging to his left. It portrayed a narrow, cobblestone street with a few bikes and small cars lined up along the sides, as well as potted flowers and miniature olive trees. The houses were a plain and faded cream color. They were close and smooshed together, with only extremely narrow alleys separating them from each other. Below the scene, the caption read: A STREET IN ITALY. After looking briefly at the painting Oliver returned his attention the door and knocked loudly. The wood, hard and sturdy, hurt his knuckles as he rapped the surface of the door. He heard no answer from inside the room. After several moments of waiting, Oliver knocked again, this time louder and with more force and stress on the hits. He was growing impatient. The second attempt had more success than the first. He heard a faint, "come in" from the other side. Finally, he thought. He turned the gilded knob and pushed the heavy door open with some difficulty, as slight as it was.