Money plays an important part in our lives. A downturn in a country’s economy can throw it into disarray.

Governmental decisions have a major impact on the economy. But how can we make our rich leaders understand the effect their actions have on us? You may find out in . . .

Truth Be Told

     The clouds darkened the horizon of the prosperous city of Millingham, the capitol of the small, obscure kingdom of Mount Essex, located in the mountains of Northern Europe. This city is a very special place. It is where I was born and raised. My name is Zachariah Lewellyn, the city’s historian . . . and this is my story. 

     I stood on the corner of Hanover and Crossenby Streets watching the people. They moved with grace and quickness through the bustling marketplace, some carrying umbrellas in anticipation of the coming rain.

     In this city of the present, many customs of the past endured. The main mode of transportation, horses, adorned with diamond-studded bridles and polished leather saddles, carried riders through streets paved with ruby red bricks. Beautiful horse drawn carriages, some enclosed with frilly curtains covering modern plate glass windows, transported aristocrats to the clothing shops, museums, and upscale restaurants lining the road.

     On this overcast day, the town brightened by the arrival of Sir Antony Garrison, the region’s financial guru, the man whose expertise provided the direction necessary for our thriving economy to remain at its current level. He rode into the center of the city, mounted with pride on an Andalusian horse, which pranced to his command. Horse and rider stopped in front of the Smithson Bank and Trust. Sir Antony dismounted, took the horse’s reins and tied them to the solid gold hitching post in front of the bank—a symbol of the city’s affluence.

     These were good times in our tiny metropolis. With flowing wealth, the posh lifestyles of our people could be sustained. The elegance of clothing and homes became obvious to all who visited the capitol. For twenty-five years, King Barwick, the Glorious, ruled this dynamic dominion in a way all enjoyed. And he, too, lavished in the land’s prosperity.

     I watched from my station as Sir Antony waived to the throng of ardent admirers who awaited his discourse. Every Monday for the past ten years, it had been his custom to address those assembled. He would speak of the marvelous growth of the economy. Those gathered today had expectations he again would praise the kingdom’s financial state.

     I found myself staring at him in awe as he took his place at the beautiful marble podium in the center of the town square, across from the front doors of the bank. The boisterous crowd became wild with anticipation. They expected Sir Antony’s economic projections would assure them their investments would increase in value.

     But as I listened, today’s message did not bring the anticipated words of encouragement. Instead, Sir Antony spoke in a deliberate manner and with an air of caution. The expression on his face showed signs of pain. “My fellow citizens, our kingdom’s imports have come to exceed its exports. This has caused a severe devaluation of our currency and has put a terrible strain on our economy.”

     “What can we do about it?” yelled a tall man in a black suede sport coat.

     Another man, attired in an expensive gray pinstriped business suit, screamed, “Give us answers, we need answers.”

     However, Sir Antony provided nothing to calm the now rowdy crowd. A cloak of blackness fell upon the city, as people felt the world closing in on them. With their livelihood threatened, they shook their heads in dismay. They began to realize their great wealth might no longer be sustainable.

     As he concluded his presentation, his final words sent chills up the spines of those assembled. He grimaced as he spoke, “The financial status of our tiny fiefdom has been compromised and all of you will be affected. Heavy taxes may have to be levied so the government can again operate in its customary, effective manner.”

     As the crowd dispersed, most felt depressed by the distressing message. Many of the city’s leaders, however, became angered by the implication that the people must bear this burden. Later that day, these leaders and all other interested residents gathered at Wickerby Hall in the midst of a pouring down rain.

     Levi Anderson, a wealthy businessman and outspoken critic of government spending abuses, moved to the front of the room. He attempted to get the attention of the group while trying hard to control his discomfort with the situation.

     “Please, please, ladies and gentlemen, quiet down.” Finally, having silenced the crowd, his words echoed through the hall. “This state of affairs begins at the top. It is King Barwick’s lavish ways we must curtail. The spending habits of those in control have produced the severe economic drain we are experiencing and they must take responsibility.”

     “Yes, yes,” those gathered yelled out in support.

     “If King Barwick and his advisors will not bear the burden for the state of our economy, we, the masses, must bring an end to his reign.”

     “Let us vote on it,” shouted an attractive woman in a stylish green dress.

     “So be it,” chanted Levi as he called for a vote from the floor to move to present the King with an ultimatum, a directive he must accept.

     Emotions ran wild as the city fathers and attending residents applauded and voted with zest to support the motion. But one had to wonder if a celebration might be premature, for it was too early to know what the King would do. Therefore, the timing did not seem right to break out the champagne.

     Levi calmed the crowd down. He proclaimed, “My fellow citizens, since we are in agreement as to what has to be done, I will lead a party of three on a visit to the palace on the hill—our mission, to obtain support from the King for our directive. We will leave first thing in the morning.”

     The next day, Levi, Aaron Richardson, and Eric Harrison, mounted on statuesque steeds, rode through the countryside and up the hill to the palace to wage their campaign. As they approached the majestic entrance, two palace guards moved in to block their momentum and to ascertain the purpose of their visit.

     The first, a robust looking guard in a prestigious, gold-trimmed uniform, queried the party, “What business do you have with the King? Has he requested your presence?”

     Levi stuttered, “Well, well . . . we have a proposal to present for his consideration.”

     Skeptical and fearful these three did not have good intentions, the first guard turned to his companion and asked, “Should we let them enter the palace grounds?”

     The second guard stared at the men and spoke with restraint. “It is best you remain at the gate for now. I will phone the Director of Security and ask him to meet with you as soon as possible.” He turned and headed toward the guard station. The first guard followed.   

     Not wanting to create a disturbance, which might sink the mission, Levi turned to Aaron and Eric and urged, “Keep calm. Do not do or say anything we might regret.”

     The others shook their heads in agreement.

     Although he believed this was the right thing to do, Levi could not help thinking the second guard’s action was the government’s way of not allowing them access to the King to present their position and demands.

     Hours passed and no Director of Security appeared. Yet the three remained composed until Aaron Richardson had had enough and blurted out in frustration, “Those damn bastards have no intention of letting us in to see the royal asshole.” From out of the shadows, a security force of six grabbed and cuffed the three and whisked them off to a lock-up to be detained.

     Four days passed. The city father’s became worried, for they had heard nothing from the three. Residents wondered why their representatives, who carried their ultimatum to the King, had not tried to contact them. They hoped their efforts had not been in vain.

     Some feared something terrible might have happened. Words of dread spread throughout the capitol, but no one knew what to do. So for now they waited patiently for word of the mission’s success, which they hoped would come soon.

     To the horror of all, one week from the day the mission began, the headline in the “TRUTH BE TOLD” section of the kingdom’s newspaper made everyone shutter. In bold it read, “Heading Home from Meeting with the King, Three Heroes Drown in the Midst of a Storm’s Pouring Rain.”

     The story stated, “Their horses bucked thus causing the three men to lose control of their steeds. All were thrown to their demise and would be remembered as heroes during King Barwick’s reign.”

     Was this the truth? I pondered this thought over and over in my mind. I put the pieces together as best I could from the information provided me by my confidential sources in the palace. These sources, however, had made it clear they did not know many of the specifics and feared if they tried to find out more about the situation, their acts would not be looked upon with favor.

     Weeks passed and no new information surfaced. The position of the King’s spokesperson on the three heroes did not change. However, neither the bodies of the three men nor those of their horses had been recovered. This troubled me. I did not know why, but something did not feel right.

     As the city’s historian, I made several trips to the palace each year. As such, I had been made an ex officio member of the King’s staff, although I performed my services gratis. Therefore, on each visit, the King and his staff had welcomed me with open arms. I believed a visit at this time might be warranted.

     The following week, I phoned the palace to let them know I intended to come. When asked the purpose of my visit, I replied, “The usual. History is a story in the making and I want to stay on top of important palace events and decisions made by the King and his advisors.” This did not arouse suspicion, as I felt it would not. As such, I received a formal invitation to come on Friday of the current week.

     Friday arrived none to soon. It was a beautiful sunny morning. Not a cloud in the sky. I hitched my fine horse, Clyde, to my handsome carriage, its silver trim glowing in the sunshine, got in, and began my journey.

     The ride was pleasurable, the scenery beautiful. Roses and violets blossomed everywhere and nature’s fine smells appealed to me. I began to organize a task list in my mind, an agenda of how to gather information that might shed some light on questions I had about the fate of the three heroes.

     I arrived at the palace’s majestic gates, trimmed with solid gold and marble, at 10:15 a.m. and showed my identification to the guard on duty. He waived me in without hesitation. I entered the opulent courtyard, the signature of the kingdom’s greatness. As I moved toward its center, a blinding light struck my eyes. They began blinking. As I regained my focus, I looked up at three huge, shiny statues poised behind the stage and podium used by the King to address his audiences.

     I did a double take. To my amazement, staring at me were Levi Anderson, Aaron Richardson, and Eric Harrison. An aura surrounded the bronze sculptured replicas of these three brave souls. Then chills shot through my body as I looked into the eyes of Levi Anderson’s statue. They were not the same exquisite bronze as the rest of the figure. And they were not made of glass or rare gems, for they appeared soft and pleading. And they were . . . moving.

     Using caution, I surveyed the other two figures. I could not stop shaking. It became clear to me—they all were alive—imprisoned within the bronze monuments.

     I scanned the courtyard. It appeared no one had noticed I had been studying the statues, not even the guards in the watchtowers. Not a soul knew I had uncovered the secret. I believed I had to do something to free these valiant men, but what? And how could I make it happen?

     Engrossed in my thoughts, I felt someone grab my arm. I tried to jerk loose, but to no avail. “Come with me. Do not protest. Do not make a scene,” the voice spoke in soft, but stern tones. My worst fear had come to be. I had been discovered.

     “We cannot let you leave. You know too much. You will now join the others placed in the courtyard. You, too, will be accorded the rank of “Hero of the State.”

     The following week the headline in the “TRUTH BE TOLD” section of the kingdom’s newspaper read, “Prominent Historian Dies of Sudden Heart Attack.”

     It was not until ten years later, with the death of King Barwick and the subsequent fall of the monarchy, that the “Truth Be Told” of my fate and that of the three heroes. After the collapse of the empire, all four of us were found and released from our “tombs,” alive and well. And, as the city’s historian, . . . this is my story.

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.