Visions
The Shepherd Book II
A Novel by Jeffrey B. Linn
All rights reserved

Chapter VII

An obese man lounged betwixt a boy of perhaps four or five and an adolescent girl. On a tea table before them lay the remains of a meal. The urchin huddled in the umbra of his father's heaped girth. The maid twirled a lock of hair absently. They maintained their vigil undisturbed by our entrance.

I turned to the lantern. On its mica pane moved the images of people, apparently acting out scenes from plays. I observed for perhaps an hour with a deepening feeling of discomfort. I was searching for the key to this race, some intimation of deeper meaning. But I was lost. What I observed on that pane of schist was a repetitive wasteland of inanities.

I turned away to again inspect the spectators. Presently, I detected a change in the tot. He leaned over and threw his arms around his father. It was a glorious gesture. I could have shouted with joy. Then the man shoved the boy aside to regain an unobstructed view of the lantern. I was close enough that even in the dimness I could see the child's eyes glaze over as he settled back into his former position.

I knew that this was the answer, the signal event that revealed this people.

And I wept.

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Footnote:
I came across a similar scene (a child's display of affection shoved aside for a better view of the tube) in Daughter of Deceit by Laura Walker (Dallas: Word Publishing, 1988). In that moment she realized her father existed exclusively to feed his whim, and I though it an apt metphor for a culture gone mad in the pursuit of Amusement.