Fortune Takes Flight

Walter Grimsby was an honest man, a loyal man, and it was for these qualities that his employer, the esteemed Mr. Howard Dudley, entrusted him and him alone with a most delicate task. Mr. Dudley was an avid gambler, and in the past few months he’d racked up a debt to Mr. Jamie Burlington in the amount of twenty-thousand. While this hefty sum made little difference to Mr. Dudley, it was of utmost importance that the small fact of his gambling habits remained unknown to all others—including his family. So it was decided that Grimsby, a servant of over two decades, would personally and secretly deliver the owed funds to Mr. Burlington.

It took a full day on horseback to reach the estate. Mr. Dudley came now with the prepared funds, up the long, pebbled path towards the stables where Grimsby was waiting with a horse.

“My dear Grimsby,” panted Mr. Dudley, evidently not accustomed to physical exertion, “I’ve prepared the sum. You must make haste! Go on now!”

He handed over a small, unassuming leather case presumably filled with two thousand crisp ten-dollar bank notes. Grimsby trembled slightly as he took the case in his nervous palms. He had never beheld something so precious in his hands before.

“Yes, sir, I’ll be on my way.”

Grimsby tucked the case into the saddlebag and mounted the horse. He gave a quick nod to Mr. Dudley, flicked the reins, and headed off into the dark, misty morning through the open gates.

***

Grimsby rode on Eastward, infantile wisps of sunlight tickling his nose. Despite the chilliness of the early morning a sheen of perspiration glowed on his forehead. A stocky, weathered man of forty, Grimsby was not of a nervous disposition, but something about his task made him very uncomfortable. Despite its simplicity, it caused a heavy weight in his heart that he could not quite explain. As he rode on, he often caught himself eyeing the saddlebag with a feeling that he could only describe as longing.

Soon, the feeling overtook him and he took out the compact leather case. He ran his hand along the top of the smooth brown leather and paused at the buckle. Were there really twenty-thousand worth of bank notes in there? Grimsby hastily glanced up and down the road. Once certain of privacy he opened up the case. The sight nearly took his breath away. As he ran his fingers over the notes, eyes wide and face pale, he felt a tightness in his chest.

Heart pounding, he closed the case and slipped it back into the saddlebag. As he did so he happened to glance down and noticed for the first time how scuffed and worn his boots were after years of wear. Scratched on all sides and the stitching coming loose, the boots begged for repair—or better yet, replacement. Grimsby began to imagine what sort of boot he would have Monsieur Marseille, the town cobbler, craft for him if he were free of financial constraint.

“The finest leather you have, Marseille! Spare no cost!” Grimsby cried out, straightening his arched back and holding his head high.

“What?” He snapped, pretending to be shocked. “You’ve no silver buckles? Gold, then!” Grimsby waved his hand dramatically.

Grimsby continued on with his dramatic act, his only audience the complacent horse, until his water flask emptied and his lips became parched under the pulsing midday sun. He dismounted his horse and lead it off the road and through the tall grasses towards a small brook. Grimsby sat down hesitantly, then jumped up and retrieved the leather case from the saddlebag.

“Goodness gracious,” he murmured to himself, riffling through stack after stack of fresh notes.

He suddenly jerked back, his face red with shame. Did he, Walter Grimsby—a good man, actually contemplate stealing from the charitable Mr. Dudley, who had always been so good to him? He quickly pushed the leather case to the side. Pulling from his pocket a little black notebook, he set his intentions on distracting himself from his treacherous thoughts. He intended to sketch, but instead found himself engaged in the calculations of expenses. The further he computed, the paler he became.

It was just as he thought; with such money he would never have to work another day in his life. If he made off with the money, no one would ever know. Mr. Dudley could never send people after him without shining light on his profuse gambling, and the money meant little to him anyway. Mr. Dudley would despise him forever—a thought that made Grimsby shiver—but what could he do? Grimsby’s imagined life beckoned him.

Though the idea of betraying Mr. Dudley pained him, it seemed as if fate prompted him to leave his old life behind. It seemed his duty to take this chance—or so Grimsby convinced himself. Having made up his mind, Grimsby settled down for a quick nap to settle his nerves. He hid the little case under a flat rock, just in case a passerby was a little too curious. Covering his eyes with the open notebook, the soft babbling of the brook lured him to sleep.

***

Grimsby awoke with a jolt, instinctively knowing that he had overslept. The sun was still high but judging from its position it had been at least three hours. Silently cursing, Grimsby scrambled up, tucked his notebook back into his pocket, and lead the horse back onto the road. He smiled slightly, thinking of the new life he was about to lead, and swallowed the guilt that still lingered in his heart. He mounted the horse and rode on.

Fifty metres ahead he reached a fork in the road. To the right was the path to Mr. Burlington’s estate; to the left was the way to town. Grinning, he took the left path.

***

“Race you all to that rock! Loser has to lick my shoe!”

There were several shrieks of laughter and a mad pounding of footsteps, and suddenly little Isabelle Watkins zipped past the said rock, throwing herself onto the ground with a victorious giggle. Tommy Shaw came next, closely followed by Poppy and Martin Baker. Panting and laughing, they sat down by the narrow little creek and dipped their feet into its pebbly shallows. Their battered shoes, caked with dirt and falling apart at the seams, were carelessly tossed aside.

Poppy glared at her brother as he hurled his shoe across the creek. “Careful, Martin! Papa says we can’t get new ones until next year!”

Martin shrugged and sent the other flying after the first. “I don’t care. I’ll go barefoot! Anyway, they don’t fit no more.

He lay down on the dirt, and tilted his head back to look at Isabelle and Tommy. He saw Isabelle sitting beside the rock, but there was something funny about the rock. It was suspended in midair, propped up only by a small object under it. He sat up.

“Isabelle, there’s something under the rock! Maybe it’s treasure!”

Tommy carried the rock away, revealing a small, leather-bound case. Martin grabbed it and, with the others gathered close, opened the case. Four pairs of eyes stared down at its contents, trying to make sense of what they saw. Poor and secluded as they were, they had never seen as much as a single bank note in their young lives—nor could they read.

“It’s just papers!” Isabelle complained.

Poppy sighed, “That’s too bad, I thought maybe it was riches. Like gold. Or pearls.”

Tommy peered into the case. “Whoever left it mustn’t have wanted it. I guess it’s ours now.”

Isabelle scowled. “What’ve we got to do with papers?”

Martin wanted desperately to impress Isabelle. He took one of the papers, folded it into a paper dart, and flew it to Isabelle. “We can fly darts!”

As Martin hoped, Isabelle’s face lit up. “Teach me! I want to fly darts too!”

The others gathered around Martin, who folded dart after dart, giddy with pride. Within a matter of minutes the ground was littered with fallen darts, and those that still flew dotted the sky like a flock of starlings. Four little souls laughed and danced beneath them, their every care in the world carried away by the wind.

***

On the edge of town, Grimsby dismounted his horse and reached for the saddlebag. The town could be rowdy, and pickpockets were not uncommon. The last thing he needed was for a pickpocket to make off with his bounty; no, it was safer if he carried the saddlebag in his own hands. He slid the bag from the horse, but almost instantaneously the colour drained from his face. The bag was light—too light. He dropped to the ground and rummaged inside like a madman, but there was no leather case to be found. A nervous sweat began to manifest on his upper lip, and he felt faint. The memory of sliding the case under the rock at his resting spot hit Grimsby with the force of thunder, and in one swift motion Grimsby was back on the mare, racing back in a feverish haze.

As he drew nearer to the brook he began to hear voices, and his heart began to pound like a drum in his chest. Almost falling from his horse, Grimsby scrambled down and threw himself into the tall grasses. He did not care who was there or what he had to do; he would get the leather case back. As he crawled closer, his hands enclosed on several scraps of paper in the dirt. Paper? He thought. He unfolded the crumpled scrap, which had apparently been shaped into a dart. A bank note!

Grimsby sprung out of the grass with a roar, face red and hands clenched. A group of huddled bodies in the clearing stood up, startled, and screamed when they saw Grimsby. He, on the other hand, stood in shock. Four little children stood before him with their eyes wide with fear, clasping in their hands tens and tens of paper darts. The leather case sat innocently wide-open at the centre of their circle.

Grimsby collected himself. “Rascals!” He screamed and shook his fists in the air. “Get away! Shoo! Go home!”

He chased after them, but the nimble and quick-footed young bodies darted away like gazelles, soon out of sight. Grimsby stood panting, his mind and heart racing. He began to pick the darts off the ground, and when the last one was found he threw himself on the ground in front of the leather case, exhausted. In the light of the soft, laggard dusk, he smoothed out each bill, stacked them, and tucked them neatly into the case. The sun was just disappearing over the horizon as he closed the case.

Grimsby sat with the case in front of him, overcome by a strange feeling. He thought about the children, the darts, and the bank notes. The little rascals had a fortune in their hands, and yet, innocent and uncorrupted by greed, they made fun with it. He, on the other hand, must be a despicable human being. Grimsby’s face, buried in his hands, burned red with shame. Mr. Dudley was so good to him; what had he done?

He stood up and brushed himself off. I have a good life serving Mr. Dudley, Grimsby thought to himself. Though he wasn’t rich, he had what he needed and there were people who cared for him. It was a simple life, but a quiet and happy one.

The mare waited patiently by the road as he slowly made his way to her, leather case in hand. He retuned the case to the saddlebag and headed forward to the fork in the road. Grimsby took a quiet, long look down the left road, and then—with a tranquil smile—rode down the right path, never looking back.