Greed Read online

  Next at the window was Arthur Griffin. “It does me good to see you, Aaron.” Aaron and Arthur had known each other for some time.

  “Hello, Mr. Griffin. How are you today?”

  “Wonderful. A fine day, this is. And you?”

  “I’m well, thank you,” Aaron replied. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Griffin?”

  Arthur’s face took on a sheepish expression. He paused and then began speaking. “I am looking at buying Darlington’s Trading Post, and I’d like to obtain a loan.”

  Always avoided debt, Arthur has, Aaron thought. This must be very important to him! “Certainly,” Aaron replied. He put out his Window Closed sign and caught Jason’s attention. “Jason, please help my customers while I attend further to Mr. Griffin.”

  Jason nodded his understanding.

  Addressing Arthur, Aaron continued. “Will you please step into my office?”

  Aaron and Mr. Griffin moved off to Aaron’s office.

  Aaron closed the door and turned to face Arthur. “May I examine your plan for the business?”

  Arthur handed Aaron a package of notes, and together they examined Arthur’s financial summary.

  Aaron was conservative with his loans. And he took seriously the fiduciary responsibility that his depositors and borrowers entrusted in him. Although he created the loan amount by printing up extra receipts – that this was done was well-known in his profession, but was not divulged to customers – he was careful to create only that amount of money that was justified by the value of the assets and expected revenue.

  Aaron was impressed with the documents Arthur presented. “You have certainly done your homework, Mr. Griffin. I especially like how you’ve summarized your cost of goods and fixed expenses.”

  Arthur was encouraged. “The monthly payment of the loan should come in about here,” Arthur pointed at a number on the document. “This is based on the interest rate that I calculated here,” he said as he pointed at still another value on the document.

  Aaron scratched his head; and in his usual conservative manner, he did some arithmetic on Arthur’s summary. “You should have no problem making your revenue and profit projections. Happy I am to provide a loan for the amount you request – and under the terms you request: 30% down and 11% interest. My only stipulation is that the promissory note be secured by the business and property.”

  This last statement gave Arthur pause. “What? ... What do you mean?”

  “I am saying,” Aaron answered patiently, “that if you fail to make payments in the amount and schedule specified in the note, the Depository will assume ownership of the business.”

  “But that's not fair,” Arthur replied. “After all, we are investing substantial funds of our own. And besides, this is paper money you are loaning. It is far different than real gold!”

  “But – but it is not paper money,” Aaron lied as he turned a shade of pale. “It is receipts backed by real gold and silver.”

  “Then,” Arthur replied with a smirk, “you should provide the loan in gold and silver, rather than dispensing receipts!”

  “Well, s-sir,” Aaron was still stuttering, “Darlington may certainly cash his receipts for gold or silver.”

  “And you will cash his receipts at his bidding?”

  “Ya – yes! Absolutely,” Aaron lied again.

  Arthur looked at Aaron shrewdly. He hesitated, and then seemed to make up his mind. “Well in that case, I accept.”

  Aaron extended his hand. Arthur was tentative when he grasped Aaron's hand, but then he smiled and they shook with some enthusiasm.

  Aaron addressed Arthur as he was heading out the door. “It seems, my friend, that you will be a businessman of means. Please give my best regards to Meredith.”

  Arthur waved just as the door was closing behind him. “That I will, Aaron. That I will.”

  Second Interlude . . .

  As though a fly on the wall, we are privileged to view the activity in a room; a nondescript room, with elegant appointments and chairs covered in leather. Seated next to the fireplace, there is a mature man; leaning forward in just such a chair, stirring and sniffing and tasting from a snifter. And there is a young man, a man of smooth features and youthful black eyes; sinking deeply into a leather chair, obscured by the shadows.

  The older man's hair, what there is of it, is shaggy – unkempt. And his face, wrinkled; his mouth twisted into a sneer, and his eyes – gray eyes of steel – penetrated the flickering shadows toward the young man.

  His manner uncertain, the young man sank further into the chair under the steady gaze of the shaggy man.

  And so we listen ...

  “... there are but few goldsmiths who still resist our overture; who resist abiding our guidance. But when we bring them into our fold – and bring them we shall – we will move forward.”

  “Forward with what, my Lord?”

  “With our plan, my young apprentice.” The man replied with a smile – a smile borne not of happiness or joy, nor of humour, nor of laughter; but instead, a smile borne of nefarious subterfuge, of anger, of hate.

  “And so,” the man continued, “we are counting on your help. And in return,” he paused, looking into the young man’s eyes, “you shall receive great wealth!”

  “But, my Lord; receive great wealth, I shall. I need only be patient.”

  “Ah, but impoverish your father, we can; and then you shall inherit nothing!”

  The young man's expression changed to a frown. He withdrew into silence.

  The wrinkled man continued. “More goldsmiths, we need for our common benefit. Bringing them into our, ah – group is the proper way.”

  “And how does this benefit us, my Lord?”

  “In time, you shall know more. For now, just know that it allows us to move the masses in a direction of, ah – our choosing,” the older man smiled.

  “My Lord, you suggest that you can control the people?”

  “Yes, my young apprentice. Yes.”

  The young man remained silent.

  The wrinkled man continued, “the larger question is – how do we convince the remaining goldsmiths to join us?”

  “Persuade them, my Lord?”

  The wrinkled man smiled, a gleam appearing in his eyes. “Now, my young apprentice, you are learning.”

  Chapter 2

  Whistling a happy tune, Arthur was working in the wheat section, stocking still more bags of wheat on a mid-level shelf. He looked to the shelves above, appreciating that they were mostly stocked – ready for still more customers. These bags have really been selling well, he thought. I need a way to get more of them; faster, and cheaper!

  Arthur was pleased with their new Trading Post business. Like most buildings in the downtown area, it was constructed of brick and stone; but unlike most buildings, it was large and modern – enabling it to house 8 rows of shelves. Of course, the ceilings were still the standard 84 inches high, and heat from its single fireplace did not easily spread throughout the store.

  As he placed yet another two packages on the shelf, Arthur glanced down at the wood plank floor. It was dusty – dusty enough that Arthur noticed the tracks ... Mouse tracks! Damn, not again. Where's that cat!

  “Hi, Father!”

  Arthur looked up to see his young daughter running toward him from the store entrance. He squatted down and smiled, inviting her into his arms. “Hi, Mary. How was school today?”

  She came into his arms. Panting, she replied, “Oh, Father. School was wonderful today. And you know what?” She continued breathlessly, “Jenny's mouser just had a litter of kittens. Can we get one?”

  Great! Arthur thought. All we need is another worthless cat!

  “How nice, Mary,” Arthur said as he smiled. “But we need a mouser that will take care of these mice – right now.”

  Mary bowed her head. “Oh.”

  “So,” continued Arthur, “maybe you could find Mittens and see if you can coax her into hunting the mice?” Arthur paused.
“And in return, we will get you another kitten.”

  Little Mary’s face lit up with joy. “Wonderful!” She ran for the door, yelling over her shoulder, “I'll go find Mittens.”

  Arthur's expression softened and his smile widened as he watched her run out the door.

  It was then that Arthur felt a poke in his ribs. “Ouch!” Arthur yelped. He turned around and embraced his wife. Without words, they enjoyed a long, passionate kiss.

  And then Meredith ended the kiss and smiled, saying, “I heard you tell Mary that we are getting another kitten?”

  “Well, only if Mittens and Mary get going on these mice.” Arthur laughed, shaking his head.

  “Well,” Meredith replied. “I found mittens. She's sleeping in a corner atop a stack of grain bags. I also watched a mouse enter into a crevice between the bags.” Meredith was grinning ear to ear.

  “Damn cat,” Arthur said, shaking his head with a wry grin.

  Third Interlude . . .

  Again, we peer into a nondescript room, with elegant appointments and leather furnishings. A mature man is seated in a leather chair; soaking in the warmth from the fireplace, his gray eyes of steel boring into the black youthful eyes of a man seated across from him. Alert and attentive, the youthful black eyes shift from the gray eyes of steel to the blazing fire; and then back again. Watching. Listening.

  The man with gray eyes was speaking, “... we now have most of the goldsmiths in our little, ah – group. And it seems that only Aaron is in doubt.”

  “Help with that, I can my Lord.”

  “Oh, really? Doubt it, I do!”

  “Why?” The black eyes blinked. “Why doubt me?”

  “You're too young to know,” the old man sniffed. “That's why?”

  “Know what?”

  “That you don't have the guts to do what is necessary.”

  The black eyes pleaded, “what do you mean by 'necessary'?”

  “A path is there for you, if you choose to take it,” the old man whispered. “You need only discernment to follow it.”

  “Is that part of the plan?”

  “No. We have not yet discussed the plan. Distinct from Aaron, the plan is.”

  “What is the plan?”

  “Reclaim our wealth, our birthright, from the peasants – that is our plan,” he chortled. “Enslave the peasants, our plan is!”

  “How?” The black eyes blinked again. “How will you do that?”

  “By seduction,” the wrinkled man smiled as he said it. “By seducing them into buying real assets – land, property, business – and taking the assets from them.”

  “And how will you seduce them?”

  The man's steel grey eyes bored into youthful black eyes. “Money,” he replied. “By loaning them an abundance of money at a very low price. This will make them prosperous, for a time. And they will sell their souls to borrow the precious money – to buy their precious land and businesses.”

  “But how will that make you wealthy?”

  “'Us', my young apprentice,” the wrinkled man chided. “You are one of us.”

  “Okay. 'Us'. So how will that make 'us' wealthy?”

  “Because the people who sold their souls to borrow our money will not be able to repay.”

  “And?”

  “And when they can't pay, we shall foreclose on their assets and we shall hold their very souls in our hand,” the wrinkled man chortled, an evil gleam in his eyes.

  “But why would they not pay?”

  “My young fellow. They will not pay because we shall withdraw the money from the economy. We shall slow the economy.” The wrinkled man looked into the fire as he chortled. “And we shall make them poor!”

  “But how will you slow the economy? How will you make them poor?”

  “As I said, by taking money out of circulation. And when we do this, they will not have enough money to pay their debts – for money will be scarce!”

  “You have that much control?”

  “Indeed.”

  The youthful black eyes receded in thought. And then the eyes lit as the young man posed a question. “From where will the money come to create loans?”

  The wrinkled man smirked as he framed his answer. “We shall create it, my young colleague. We shall conjure it out of nothing – with little etchings on paper – and the peasants shall believe it has value!”

  The wrinkled man began ranting ...

  “Because we control the goldsmiths, we control the amount of money in circulation. Collectively, we can increase the amount of money in circulation; and we can decrease the amount in circulation.”

  Talking ceased for a moment.

  “Of course,” the wrinkled man wheezed as he continued, “the goldsmiths must create much more money in receipts than we have in actual gold and silver. But the peasants will not know, since we will confiscate their money along with their property. And the peasants will be none the wiser, as they have come to believe that paper receipts are money; and gold is some barbarous relic!”

  Chapter 3

  Toiling under an overcast sky, Jonathan and Frances rolled the last bundle of wheat along the ground and then tied it off. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he stepped back to survey the bundle. “Whew! Hard work, it is!” His large frame breathing heavily, he glanced toward Frances and smiled.

  Frances shook her fiery red hair and wiped her brow. Meeting Jonathan's gaze, she said, “Aye, Jonathan. It is indeed!” Her smile grew wide across her face as her eyes lit brightly.

  Jonathan looked up at the sky. “Store these bundles, we should. Before rain comes.” While Frances watched, Jonathan went to the barn and returned leading an ox hitched with a wagon. They loaded the wheat onto the wagon, hauled the load to the barn, and stacked the wheat in a storage bin.

  Mist began to fall just as they came out of the barn. “Go back to the house, we should,” Jonathan announced.

  Frances smiled and moved up close to Jonathan. She put her head up to his chest and said, “Aye, my love.

  Holding hands, they walked across the field toward their quarters – a brick and mortar structure with a thatched roof. Sauntering along, they paid no mind to the rolling green hills or the low hanging clouds in the distance. Nor did they pay any mind to the nearby hill lined with trees. Newly married, their thoughts were only of each other.

  Frances hummed as they walked. But then she broke off her humming and posed a question. “How long will you continue working as one of Lord Mallory's peasants?”

  “I do not know. Save more money, I'd like. And then, perhaps, purchase a business in the village.”

  “Business? Hmmm ... What kind of business?”

  “I do not know. I can do blacksmithing pretty well, or maybe something else ...”

  “But are there enough people wanting a blacksmith?”

  “Again, I do not know. But no matter. If we buy an existing business, then we can see the money it receives. Then we can figure our offer accordingly.”

  Frances stopped walking, pulling Jonathan toward her. Her expression took on a coy grin as she engaged him. “I'm carrying your child, Jonathan.”

  “What?” he gasped. “What did you say?”

  “I ‘ave a child inside of me,” she said simply.

  Jonathan's expression became one of wonderment. “Really?”

  “Yes, my love,” she looked at him and smiled. “Happened right after we married, it did.”

  Jonathan jumped in the air with glee, He shouted “Wow! A father I will be. WOW!”

  He grabbed both her hands and they moved together; fluid, easy movements of happiness and joy.

  Jonathan's voice quivered with excitement. “Is it a boy, or a girl? Can you tell?”

  Frances giggled as she replied, “No, my love! I can't know. I only just found out yesterday. Or at least, I talked with mother and she told me the signs to look for. And signs I have!”

  They held each other close as they walked toward their hut, oblivious to the mist falling
around them.

  * * *

  Heat radiated outward from the fireplace, spreading its warmth throughout the one-room hut. The hut was cozy, furnished as it was with homemade throw rugs dispersed across the dirt floor. The coziness was a tribute to both Jonathan and Frances – for they were young, vibrant, and full of energy. The kind of energy it takes to make a home, and create a family.

  Jonathan placed his mug on the mantel and looked down at the blazing fire. Surrounded by the white brick walls, he listened. Listened as Frances' impassioned plea filled the room.

  “... Jonathan, I beseech you to move away from this – this ‘peasant’ slavery you're trapped in.”

  Jonathan began pacing the floor, running his hand through his long brown hair. “But Frances,” he pleaded, “we need a secure, stable life. Especially with the baby coming.” He paused and then continued his pleading. “And I don't 'ave enough money saved to go off into business. What would happen if we 'ave an emergency? We shall 'ave no extra money!”

  “Jonathan,” she replied, “how long will you continue to be a slave to Lord Mallory?” She paused and then almost shouted, “sucking the lifeblood out of you, I swear 'e is!”

  For a moment, the room fell silent. And then Jonathan replied. “But we 'ave stability 'ere! At least we have a place to come to – with food and shelter.”

  “But Jonathan. There may not always be enough to raise our family. Surely, you can see that! Farming is risky – what with the weather and pestilence; and that Lord Mallory can throw us off his land as is his whim! After all, we cannot own this land – it shall forever be owned by his Lord and family!”

  She paused looking squarely at Jonathan. “Yes, our labour can support us when times are good. As we already 'ave – we can even continue to put some money away. But when it comes to raising a family, we won't 'ave enough! And you will break your back working ‘ere as a slave!”

  “But Frances. Enough money, I do not 'ave. And if I borrow from the goldsmith, then I’ll be a slave to ‘im!”

  “Oh, my darling Jonathan. We can always pay back the goldsmith. But Lord Mallory – you’ll ne’er see a penny from 'im!” She paused and then continued. “So I ask you, Jonathan. Again. Please seek a business, or employment, at least, in the village. Please, Jonathan. Please!”