The Shepherd

Epilogue

Sicily was beautiful. There was a cool, salty air that wafted in from the strait. Morning brought singing birds and the last tendrils of chimney smoke rising up. The streets were quiet, with a few bikers passing every so often. The houses, apartments, and shops were packed together tightly, like volumes on a shelf. Within this little corner of the city, there was a bubble of tranquility, which nothing could penetrate, except to come into the fold itself.

And there Oliver stood, on the corner of a three-way street, staring at an ancient house. A heavy door. Old, sun-bleached brick that lay uneven where they had been mortared into place, giving the structure the appearance that it would crumble at any moment. A single clump of vine, neatly trimmed and intertwined, snaked its way up to the railing of a small balcony. It held a table, upon which a small flower pot of white lilies rested. The delicate flowers swayed beautifully in the breeze.

Clutched in his hands was a slip of paper containing an address. And there in front of was that very address, scratched onto a worn, golden plaque by the door, and painted on the mailbox. There was no mistake it; this was the home of his parents. Oliver stood erect in the street, holding firmly the paper in one hand, and clutching his small bike in the other.

One month had passed. He had been in Messina for one month. It was a month filled with rest and doctor's visits, and impatiently waiting in the bed of a hospital for the day he could make this very trip. A slight concussion and small gash in the upper reaches of his forehead was all he sustained from the crash. Recovery had been quick, yet boring, and Oliver found that most insufferable part of it was being trapped in the confines of his own poor health. But now he had received permission from his doctor to make the trip across town. After a brief phone call and some paperwork, he, in broken English, informed Oliver that he was no longer an admitted patient to the hospital, and that he was now within the temporary care of his parents, until the official custody papers could be sorted out. This final leg of the journey, however, was one that he had to make alone. His face became dark and sullen with grief as he remembered that night along the strait. Mr. Shepherd had gotten him this far, a distance that, both literally and figuratively, he couldn't have travelled all on his own. But the old man could take him no further— he had drowned in the crash.

Oliver shoved the address into his pocket and pulled out his bible. It was shrunken and distorted from being submerged in the seawater. Nearly every page was smeared with blotchy water stains. But it was still readable, for the most part. He ran his fingers along the ruined cover. It gave him great comfort. This book had re-manifested itself to him the first time he properly read it.

It was on a lonely night in the hospital, when his throbbing head kept him from sleeping. To try to calm himself, Oliver took it from his nightstand and opened it up to pass the time. He then read several passages from the New Testament. The book that once caused him grief and anger, was now the cure to it. As mangled and destroyed as it was, it was the only thing he had of Mr. Shepherd to remember him by.

Oliver wore the same overly-casual clothes he always did, though he had put more effort in combing his hair on this particular morning. As he stood on the corner, staring at the house, he felt sick. His parents were likely only a few feet from him. Finally, he moved, taking a deep, shaky breath. A single tear welled up in his eye and dispelled. Courage had never been a difficult thing for him to muster, but with each step he took towards the house it seemed to dig itself deeper away from him.

The door was beautiful; smooth, anciently crafted, somehow incredibly welcoming. A fist was raised to the wood, and he rapped the door twice. Then he waited. Cars and the city bustle could be heard in the distance. A cyclist passed by, diverting Oliver's attention. He watched the spokes of the wheel as they turned over the cobblestone streets.

Suddenly he heard the door swing open, and there was his mother, dressed in a neat sun dress. Her hair blonde hair was tied back in a tight bun. As they gazed upon each other, a silence was brooding between them. Oliver found that the breath had escaped him. The words which he wanted to form wouldn't come. And so, he stood there, with his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. As for his mother, she immediately began to smile, and then her face gleamed with tears. Her face was as youthful and beautiful as ever. She wore the decade that had passed well. In that moment, all Oliver could think to do was smile. A jumble of thoughts had tangled themselves in his mind. The momentum of the occasion had distracted him.

His mother pulled him in close for an embrace. Her arms wrapped around him like a blanket. They stood there for some moments. At last, just before they released, his mother pulled in closer and whispered through quiet sobs, "You came."