The Shepherd’s Song Page 5

  “No,” Sevin said. “Just sheep.”

  “Dirty sheep,” Father added.

  This brought on another round of laughter as they loaded back into the car. They crawled in among the bundles and settled back into their places. Father started the engine, and puffs of fine dust blew out of the vents as the car began to move.

  “A god who is a shepherd,” Nadia said, letting the idea settle in her mind. It wasn’t so funny to her. It was exciting. She sat back and thought.

  At home they had often heard the bombs whizzing overhead, and she’d wondered what would happen if she died. Had she been good enough? Would Allah punish her? She knew her father and mother had the same fear of Allah.

  What if God was a shepherd? She knew about shepherds; they took care of their sheep, even stinky ones. The sheep were not afraid of the shepherd. They loved the shepherd and felt safe with him. She would like to feel safe and loved.

  Nadia thought about her life. Everything was changing. Everything was uncertain. The little love and security in her life came in dribbles, like water. What would it be like to have a shepherd God watching over her—a shepherd God who loved her and cared for her—a life of love and security, not fear? Behind her was a dry, barren existence—ahead, she felt, was life.

  Aza leaned close, touching the paper gently. “I want the paper, too. I want to send a letter to Jwan.” He already missed his best friend, Jwan, from home.

  Nadia looked nervously to the front seat, waiting for Mother to make her give the paper to Aza. A small snore came from her mother, and Nadia breathed relief.

  “We can’t send a letter yet,” Nadia said. “We have to wait until we get to Adana.”

  He seemed satisfied.

  She stared at the words on her paper. She wanted to ask Sevin to read it to her again, but her sister was sitting with her head resting back, eyes closed.

  Nadia ran her finger over the words. Then suddenly she saw one word that she recognized: water!

  She smiled. The paper said water. She knew that word from the bottles of water that the soldiers gave them. The paper was about the shepherd God and also about water.

  “Sevin,” she tugged her sister’s arm.

  Sevin did not open her eyes but pursed her lips in a pout.

  “Just one more line. Please?” She pushed the paper into her sister’s hand. “Just read to me about the water.”

  Nadia’s mouth was dry as she handed Sevin the paper, and she felt more thirsty than ever. Sevin looked at the line and sighed.

  “He leads me beside still waters,” she read.

  She gave the paper back. “That’s all for now.”

  Nadia leaned her head against the window. The words were beautiful.

  He leads me beside still waters. This was about the shepherd God who would lead his sheep to water. Could this God bring her family to water? Could he care for them like a shepherd cares for his sheep?

  Across the desert she could see a camel caravan walking in the distance. The men who cared for the camels were always planning for the next source of water. A shepherd took care that his sheep had water, too. Without it they would die.

  Shepherd God, she said in her mind, If you are my shepherd, give me this water.

  In the middle of the crowded backseat Nadia felt peace, and she closed her eyes. For the first time in several days, she slept. As she slept, she dreamed of sheep being loved by a shepherd. The sheep did not do anything. The shepherd loved and cared for them, just as they were.

  In her dream one of the sheep came closer and closer. She tried desperately to see the sheep’s face but could not. The sheep kept circling the shepherd, with its face always just out of sight. At last the sheep turned abruptly, and she knew it was herself.

  Nadia woke and thought about this shepherd God, who did not require her to be anything but a sheep of His.

  As night fell, they arrived at the border. Sevin and Aza slept in the backseat as the family waited in the long lines to have their papers checked. Finally, when it was their turn, the men took a look at Father’s documents and waved them into their new life.

  It seemed that they were leaving behind the horror of war, along with the thirst and fear. Nadia held the paper closely as they drove on through the night. The hum of the tires was peaceful. The crowded backseat was comforting.

  Dawn broke. They rounded the last bend of the mountain, and there it was. The sea! It stretched out in front of them. White dots of waves capped the surface—so blue and so clean. Best of all, there was so much. More water than she had ever seen—more than she even imagined. Could God be like that, so much more than anyone could imagine?

  Aza was bouncing up and down on the car seat.

  “Look at the boat!” he yelled.

  A big green sailboat was anchored just offshore. A small dinghy from the sailboat was making its way to shore.

  Father pulled the car over, and they piled out, running to the water. Mother laughed, a sound Nadia had not heard in years. The joy was overwhelming, the coolness of the water refreshing, the blueness soothing.

  They played and laughed, then sat on the rocks.

  Father took out the basket of food, and Nadia pulled the paper out again.

  “Father, it’s true,” she said.

  “What’s true?”

  “The paper says, ‘He leads me beside still waters,’ and here we are.”

  “Huh?” he said, not really listening.

  Nadia leaned back and said, “I think God is big, big as the sea. Best of all, He cares for all of us, even me.”

  They drank fresh water from a public well by the picnic area. There was more than enough for everyone.

  Nadia set the paper down beside her and closed her eyes. The sun warmed her face. Aza played, and the family dozed as the breezes blew over them.

  Suddenly Aza came running up.

  “Nadia, I sent it!” he yelled.

  “What?”

  “I sent Jwan a letter.”

  “What letter?”

  “The one from the haboob.”

  Nadia looked at the empty sand beside her. Her paper was gone. Aza must have taken it.

  “Who did you give it to?”

  “The man on the boat, the big boat.”

  Out on the sea they could see the green sailboat moving away in the distance, the small dinghy trailing behind.

  Nadia should have been angry, but there was no anger in her. The paper had blown into her life, teaching her about God, and she knew it was true. The god written about on this paper was the real God. He was a shepherd, who loved His sheep and cared for them and gave them water. She wanted to know more about this God. She would keep asking until she found someone to tell her more. She was thirsty again, but in a different way.

  “Aza,” she said, “look at the birds.”

  Above them the gulls hovered in the breeze. Unlike the captive birds in the cages at the town market, these birds were free, flying high in the blueness of the sky, flying high beside the still water.

  Nadia’s heart soared, and she felt as free as the birds.

  FRANÇOIS GINGERLY REMOVED the old painting from its cocoon of paper while the woman looked on anxiously.

  “It was in my father’s attic,” she said. “I believe it’s been there for almost a century.”

  “I see.”

  François turned the painting over. Years of restoration work had taught him to look at the back first. He could tell much more from the back.

  The painting was on linen, very brittle, with a medium-sized tear near the top. He gently ran his fingers along the inside edge—not bad for a hundred-plus years old, but it would definitely require some careful work.

  He turned it back over.

  “The chimney leaked into the attic,” she said apologetically. “So there’s some dirt on the painting.”

  That was an understatement. This was one of the dirtiest pieces of art François had ever seen, and he’d seen quite a few in his forty years in the resto
ration business. There was so much grime and soot on this painting that it was difficult to make out the figures in the scene. Who knew what else might be on the canvas?

  François was always hopeful. He remembered an Italian painting of the prodigal son that a colleague had cleaned, only to discover that the son was arriving home in a boat. The boat had been completely hidden by the buildup of centuries of dirt and dust.

  “I don’t know if I should have it restored,” she said hesitantly.

  It was the question measured by everyone who entered his shop. Was the painting valuable enough to restore? Was it worth the money and time and energy? François asked himself the same question.

  “I can clean it first,” he offered, “then you can decide whether you’d like further work.”

  “So, what is the price for cleaning?”

  “Three hundred euro.”

  The woman stared at the painting.

  “It was my grandfather’s. He might have even painted it himself . . .” She paused.

  François was usually the one to waver at this point and drop the price, but his wife had always encouraged him to stand firm. “You are valuable, and people either value your service or they do not,” she’d said. Now that she was gone, he was even more resolved to follow her advice.

  The woman let out a sigh. “All right. Go ahead.”

  She pulled out her wallet and paid the down payment.

  When the woman left, François went back to his computer. His screen saver, William Dyce’s painting The Good Shepherd, was bouncing around. He hit the space bar, and the entire painting filled the screen.

  It had been his screen saver for six months and two days. He knew the exact date, because it was the day his wife, Annette, had died. A copy of the painting had hung in the room where she’d had her chemotherapy treatments, and she had taken to it immediately.

  “Look, chéri,” Annette had said, “how gently the shepherd carries the lamb.” Her eyes had looked at the painting as if she was looking through a window. “Maybe He will carry me that way . . . when I go.”

  “No,” François protested. “You are not going anywhere. You are staying right here with me.”

  Over the past six months and two days François had looked at the painting many times. Once again he studied the sheep with all the various shades of beige and brown and all the whites. He eyed the soft tenné colors of the robe that the shepherd was wearing, and that splash of blue. The colors were just right. He’d love to see the painting in person for a better look, but the original was in the Manchester Art Gallery and he was in Paris. So for now, the computer would have to do. It was hard to imagine going to see the painting without Annette.

  The bell jingled, signaling another customer entering the shop. Two in one day—that was a lot. François hurried to the front. Visitors meant company, and he hadn’t had much. The woman today was the first in two weeks.

  “François, my friend. I’ve come to admire your latest project, whatever it may be.”

  It was Gérard, a friend of many years.

  “Ah, the world traveler returns!” François realized that today he had spoken more words than in the previous two weeks combined.

  Since Annette’s death, there were a number of days when he spoke to no one. Slowly he had felt himself slipping from life; slowly his soul was waning away, like a fading moon.

  “Gérard, my friend. Come and sit. I want to hear all about your sailing trip. Can I bring you coffee?”

  “Yes, and make it strong. I will need strength.”

  François poured the coffee and added the touch of cream that he knew Gérard liked.

  “My friend, why do you need strength?”

  “Today I book my ticket on the Chunnel.” He was going through his wallet and counting his cash.

  “The Chunnel? You, Gérard Chantier, are going to ride the Chunnel?”

  “Yes, all thirty-one miles of it. I will be two hundred and fifty feet below the surface of the water,” he said with a shudder. “You know me. I like to be on top of the water!”

  “Why not take a boat?”

  “Too slow. Besides, they won’t let me be captain!”

  They both laughed.

  “So, you are off to London,” François said, trying not to show his disappointment.

  When Gérard left town, François would likely see no one the entire time he was gone, save for an occasional customer. Lately François had wondered, if he died in his apartment, would it be weeks before anyone found his body?

  “Yes, I’m off to London. And I hope this time while I’m gone you’ll be back at the café. The boys tell me they did not see you once while I was gone sailing. Everyone misses you.”

  “I was busy,” François lied. He hadn’t felt much like being with his friends. He still felt empty inside, like a hollow piece of chocolate with a shell that looked good but no rich chocolate inside, just nothing.

  “Ah, I almost forgot.” Gérard pulled a piece of folded paper from the bills in his wallet. “Here. A little boy gave this to me when we stopped in Turkey.”

  François took the paper.

  “It reminded me of you and that painting you like so much.”

  Gérard pointed to the image of The Good Shepherd, again bouncing back and forth on François’s computer screen.

  François didn’t mention how the painting reminded him of his dear Annette.

  When she had finally been admitted to the hospice wing of the hospital, the nurses had moved the picture into her room beside her bed. François had sat beside her day after day, hoping and praying for a miracle.

  “Look, chérie,” she had said one day, “how Jesus is carrying the lamb through the gate. Will you let me go? Can I go through the gate?”

  “No,” François had begged. “Don’t leave me. You will get better. We will go to England and see this painting together.”

  Gérard interrupted his thoughts. “You could visit the painting, you know—if you went with me on the Chunnel.”

  “Oh, no.” François held up his hands in protest. “I’m not going on that thing.”

  “Well,” Gérard said, “we’ll discuss it another day. Now I want to see your latest project.”

  “Aaaaaaaaaaah,” François teased. “Something new came in today.”

  The men made their way to the restoration area in the back.

  The large room consisted mostly of an old wooden table covered with bottles of chemicals: acetone, alcohol, linseed oil, turpentine, mineral spirits, and bowls of swabs and cotton balls.

  The woman’s dirty painting lay at one end of the table. Gérard hovered over it.

  “Where’d this come from—the coal bin?”

  François laughed.

  “Aaaah, but what lies beneath?” Gérard said mysteriously.

  “That is always the question,” François said. “And who was the artist?”

  Gérard clasped his hands in childlike excitement. “Yes, yes. Perhaps this one will be a great discovery for you. A famous artist—French, of course.”

  “Of course.” François smiled.

  He picked up a soft-bristle brush and began to gently dust the painting. When he finished, he picked up a cotton ball and dipped it in the cleansing gel. He started at the edge of the painting and dabbed carefully. The cotton ball came away covered in black.

  Gérard watched intently, not speaking but breathing heavily. François repeated the procedure several times, and slowly a patch of green appeared.

  “Maybe a pastoral scene,” François said. He looked closely. It was painted with a thick flat surface that looked vaguely familiar. It was a style he recognized, but he couldn’t remember where.

  “I will return tomorrow to see the progress,” Gérard said. “Right now, I’m off to get my Chunnel ticket.”

  When Gérard left, François pulled out the paper Gérard had gotten in Turkey. His English was pretty good, so he had no trouble reading it.

  Psalm 23: The Shepherd’s Song. He looke
d at the picture on his screen, and the final memory flooded back.

  The last day the nurse had spoken to him in the hall with great kindness. “You have to let her go. She’s hurting. She’s hanging on because of you. You must tell her that she can go.”

  François had struggled with his thoughts, but he knew the nurse was right. For Annette’s sake, he had to let her go.

  As he came into the room, Annette smiled weakly. He sat beside her and held her hand for the last time. They looked at the picture together.

  “Look,” François said through his tears. “The shepherd is ready to take his sheep.”

  Annette nodded, looking at him with love.

  “May . . . I . . . go?” She strained for each word.

  “Go, my darling. Go through the gate with Jesus.”

  Six months of unshed tears came as François gripped the paper. Tears for Annette at first and the years that she would miss, then tears for himself and the love that he had lost that day.

  He held the paper and read. The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want . . . He continued down the page until he came to a phrase that stopped him.

  He restores my soul.

  That’s what I need, François thought. I need my soul restored.

  Lately he’d felt his soul was dead, but maybe it wasn’t completely dead. He didn’t know for sure. One thing he did know—before Annette’s cancer, life had been brighter, clearer. Music had been sweeter. Now everything seemed dull and dark and flat. He looked at the grime on the painting and the small patch he had cleaned, now colorful and clear. Maybe his soul was just covered in grime—the grime of grief. Grime was oily and stuck hard to paintings; perhaps grief stuck hard to the soul.

  François rubbed his chin. “But how in the world do you restore a soul?” He imagined a giant hand dabbing grime off his soul and a small bit of color appearing. Oh, if it was only that easy, he thought. Besides, I am an old man. Who would restore the soul of an old man? There is no value there.

  François tossed the paper aside and picked up another cotton ball. He worked for a solid six hours, stopping only for small breaks. As he worked, it became increasingly clear that this was a painting of great quality. He dreamed of a Picasso, or Matisse, or Renoir, or Cézanne, but it was only a dream, certainly not a possibility.