The Shepherd

11

The boat was feeble, underwhelming, and not at all what Oliver had expected. Mr. Shepherd had given a rather unflattering initial description, but even that seemed an understatement now that they were beholding it with their own eyes. Still, with the past few days having been filled with mansions, private jets, and limo rides, Oliver had half-expected a yacht to be waiting for them off the coast. This was certainly not the case.

The boat was small and humble, and ugly. It was stripped of most of its original navy-blue color and replaced with huge splotches of rust covering a large portion of its surface. As it bobbed calmly on the water, tied firmly to the docks, it seemed as though it would fall apart, or that it would sink as soon as anyone stepped foot inside. Compared to the much newer, much prettier boats on either side, it was a pathetic sight. Both Mr. Shepherd and Oliver stared at it intently. "Well," Mr. Shepherd mused, "it's only for an hour or two."

"It's a death trap," Oliver said, not taking his eyes off the boat. "I'm not going on that thing."

Suddenly a man appeared, striding towards them from down the docks a short distance. He was stout and slow, hobbling as he walked. His features (with exception to his fat, protruding nose) seemed short and shrunken. He wore plain clothes— a grey wool shirt, muddy suspenders, and murky-green cargo pants. His greatly receding hairline was covered partially by a battered flat cap resting loosely on his head. Stains littered nearly every visible article of clothing. As he approached, Oliver found that he smelled of fish and sweat. He carried a tacklebox in either hand, which swung at his sides as he walked. Just as he reached the two, he shouted, "Now, which one of you is Mr. Simon Shepherd?" His voice was gruff and deep, and accent-free. Mr. Shepherd nodded and waved. The man gave him an acknowledging glance, then climbed into the small fishing boat and set the two tackle boxes down inside. "I know she doesn't look like much, but she's toughed the seas of Italy longer than any boat in this harbor."

"Forgive us if we're a bit apprehensive," Mr. Shepherd said politely. "Boats were never a strong suit of mine."

"What a shame," The man exclaimed in response, shaking his head in mock remorse. He seemed to linger on the thought, but as his eyes lit up he adjusted his hat and said in his harsh voice, "Do you have the money?"

"Ah, the money..." Mr. Shepherd pulled a crisp check from the inside pocket of his suit, turned it over in his hands briefly, then handed it over to the man, who snatched it eagerly and stuffed it into his own pocket.

"The boat will be ready in a couple of hours," he said. He climbed back into the rickety boat and started rummaging through a box off to the side. "Until then, you can do what you like." He turned from them and went about his business, seemingly ignoring their presence entirely.

Mr. Shepherd stared for a moment. Finally, in a low voice, he said, "Alright, then. Now that that's taken care of, how does lunch sound?"

"I don't trust that guy," Oliver blurted quickly, and then added, "Or his boat."

"Either way, you're getting on that boat. And you shouldn't have anything to worry about— even I could sail across the channel."

"You haven't lost all your marbles," Oliver said cautiously, as he eyed the man in disgust. "He has."

Mr. Shepherd didn't give a real response, just a quiet grunt. He readjusted the grip on his cane and began walking away, nodding for Oliver to follow. "I'm sure there's a decent place to eat here somewhere."

Oliver didn't have an appetite for food, especially considering the rather questionable voyage they were about to take. Nevertheless, he followed the old man down the docks and up towards the streets, in search of a restaurant. They never found one, even after an extensive search through the surrounding streets.