The Shepherd

8

Oliver had gone to bed early that night, though he didn't actually fall asleep until much later, in the darkest hours of the night. His mind was buzzing constantly with all kinds of thoughts. Some were pleasant while others were not, but there was one in particular that kept emerging from the murky, muddled depths of his consciousness— his parents. Before leaving Mr. Shepherd's room he noticed a piece of paper sticking out from one of the many overflowing drawers. It appeared to be a letter written in furiously scribbled writing. The many lines of writing combined with the sloppily elegant signature at the bottom of the page cemented Oliver's suspicion that it was indeed his father's handwriting. The name that was scribbled read 'Tom', his father's name. The date of the letter was alarmingly recent, within the past six months. Anger flushed through Oliver at first, but he got over it, realizing he had nothing to be upset about. If anything, he should be rejoicing at the discovery that if his mother wasn't alive his father was, as of six months ago. He intended to ask Mr. Shepherd about it later.

Morning came slowly. A restless mind had caused night for Oliver to creep along as slowly as it pleased, which was such a morose pace that each hour felt like a night of its own. Boredom overwhelmed him for much of the early morning hours. Thoughts of temporary activities to occupy himself raced through his mind before being carelessly discarded. When the first glimpses of dawn creeped slowly down the wall a wave of relief filled Oliver. He decided that he couldn't stay in his bed any longer and dressed. He had only the clothes that he had worn at the start of his misadventure, so changing into his only clean pair of boxers and the rest of his outfit took no more than a minute or two.

He paced himself as he walked, as he did every time he strolled through the halls of Mr. Shepherd's mansion, in order to study things he had missed earlier. The paintings were obscured in darkness; dawn's pale light wasn't enough to lighten the scenes to their typical beauty. Oliver strained his eyes in order to see them. One painting was a seascape of brilliant blue waters. Jagged rocks and crashing waves along the thin shore made the scene more violent than perhaps some of the other paintings around it. The intensity of it, however, did not detract from its beauty. Oliver had never been particularly enthused by art of any kind, but there was something in the portraits that hung on Mr. Shepherd's walls that never ceased to amaze him.

After some careful study of a few of the pictures, Oliver slowly spiraled down the elegant steps that led to the first floor. Then he went through the main walkway, and then the living room before finally arriving in the kitchen. Damon was there behind the counter, scrubbing vigorously a pair of pans. He gazed up from his labors and said, wiping a small drop of glistening sweat from his brow, "Oliver, you're early... what brings you here so early in the morning."

"I couldn't sleep," Oliver replied lazily.

"Why, is something the matter?" Oliver lied to him, saying that a headache had kept him up all night. Damon nodded. "Maybe Simon's condition is contagious."

"Maybe," Oliver mused. He thought back to the fit Mr. Shepherd had had the night before in his office. It troubled him. "Can you fix me something to eat?"

"Anything for a skinny boy like you, Oliver. What do you want?" Oliver asked for a plate of eggs and bacon. Damon, in response, laughed and nodded heartily, scrubbing more furiously at his pans and walking briskly back into the depths of the kitchen.

Silence ensued. A clock was ticking rhythmically elsewhere in the house, but it was the only observable sound that Oliver could hear aside from the banging and rattles coming from the kitchen. He sat at a barstool perched high above the other chairs in the kitchen. A smooth granite counter was before him, so perfect and well-kept that he could vaguely see his reflection in the glossy stone. Around the expansive room various decorations were hung on the walls; elegant things of all shapes and capacities were neatly mounted in their place. Some were old pieces of jewelry and encrusted silverware. The thing that caught his eye the most was a great tapestry in the center of the back wall, old and worn and hanging motionless where it was. It was the image of a clear, stagnant pond surrounded by thick forest. Green underbrush and weeds plagued the overgrown scene, but beauty still radiated from it. Off to the side— but obviously the subject of the depiction— was a brilliant brown stag, bowing his head to drink from the pond. His lean body flexed and showed off its sleek coat as it bent toward the water. The pond and stag were both bathed in a single ray of celestial gold sunlight, leaving the rest of the forest cloaked in shadow. The attention to detail in the piece was breath-taking.