Golden Greed
By: Clarisse Cockrill
I remember when my grandfather would tell me time and time again that there will be a moment in our lives when we come across a precious treasure that we would feel the need to have and possess, and we would refuse to lose, even if our lives would end in the process. It could be a person, a pet, or a random inanimate object; but this treasure would be the rock that would keep us firmly tied down to the ground of reality.
My grandfather already possessed his “rock”, his precious treasure. It was a compass - a dusty, dirty, dull, old compass that never worked. It only pointed north - always north. Yet, while I always looked at his compass as just a broken object, he considered it the most amazing thing in the whole entire world. My grandfather was completely attached to this old, rusty compass; always wearing it around his neck, taking it wherever he went. He would wear it to the market, to the capital, when he went out to salvage for certain resources he needed for his secret projects that he worked on in the basement. That compass would never part from my grandfather, because it was something important to him.
However, time never allows things to stay as they are forever. At some point, things must part - relationships must end. And time decided to remove my grandfather from my life, and evidently leave me with his rusty old compass that always pointed north. I don’t remember how my grandfather died, all I know is that it happened overnight, when I was sleeping. I was only seven years old.
After my grandfather passed away, I was taken in by the neighboring family who lived in the building across from us. My grandfather and their grandfather seemed to know each other from the past, and has always stayed as good friends; so it was only natural that they would take me in as their own. And I was only a child then, with no one else who I could consider family. People said I was an orphan, but I really hate that word - I prefer being called a lone wolf. Why? Because they are always alone.
I lived with them for a few years, trying to live with the fact that my beloved grandfather was dead and resume a normal life. The only living reminder I had left was his precious treasure, the compass. Looking at this rusty piece of metal, it made me wonder - would I ever find a treasure as precious as he did, which he left behind for me to own and keep the wounds in my heart painfully open? No matter how many times I told myself that my grandfather’s compass was now my treasure, I knew it was a lie - I was telling myself a lie. It wasn’t mine to possess. It was my grandfather’s. I should have left it with him, but I couldn’t give it up. It reminded me too much of grandfather.
By the time I was ten, I created a habit of wandering the streets of the marketplace aimlessly, looking at all of the stalls at the items the vendors presented, yet never buying anything. I didn’t want anything that they had, nothing interested me. The items didn’t affect me like my grandfather’s compass did. So why would I need anything else? That’s what I always believed, and what I lived by.
Then one day, when I was taking my daily visit to the marketplace and visiting the many stalls and vendors that I have known for three years, I noticed that there was one new stall that I didn’t recognize, way in the back of the marketplace. The back was where all the new vendors set up their shops, where hardly anyone visits. I like to visit them however, because I like to visit all of the shops and look at what they have, though I know I won’t buy anything they have. But, this vendor was different. As I viewed the items he was trying to sell, I noticed why he was different. He didn’t sell fabrics. He didn’t sell jewels. He didn’t sell fruits, eggs, or fish. The only thing he was selling was books.
I didn’t know why I was so interested in his stall, there was no purpose for books now - well, at least for people who lived in my district of the city. We all were poor peasants, who couldn’t read. Of course, the skill of being able to read held no real importance to us. There was no way we would be able to survive the harsh environment and our style of livelihood by reading. We had to be able to know how to survive - not read. Books to us were just another thing to use to feed the fires at night. But, I still was curious in the merchandise. I didn’t know why, nor did I wish to understand - I just was.
Driven by sheer curiosity, I was searching through the stacks of books set around the stall. I picked each book up, open it and flipped through the pages, placed it back down it a different pile, and then picked up another, repeating the process. The merchant selling the books, an elderly man, looked at me with an amused expression. He didn’t say anything to me at all; he didn’t try to sweet talk me into buying books or anything like that. He just watched me while he sat in his chair set up behind the stall, smoking a pipe. It was out of the norm for me, which made me feel very uncomfortable.
I watched the old man out of the corner of my eye while I continued to look through the books, discovering with surprise how each book that I held in my hands were different. They all were unique in a way; some had different kinds of covers - some were bound in leather, and some were flimsy that would bend every which way. And some were extremely hard, so solid that I could knock on the cover and it would sound like I was knocking on a door. Then I noticed the colors of the books were different, as well as in size. Some were large, others were extremely small, and some were just really thick in pages - which also made the books extremely heavy.
Each book was different in so many ways, it astounded me. I never looked at something that held so little importance with such amazement. Books are a strange thing, I thought, holding this one old book in my hands. Its cover was damaged in so many ways, showing years of wear and tear. The book was wrapped in old leather, and I could tell how old it was by the texture and appearance of the leather. The leather’s original dark color was faded, and the texture was soft to the touch. It ever showed slight tears and punctures, which suggested that the book went through so much more damage than a book shouldn’t really go through. The book must have traveled all over the world, to have such weathered features.
“Miss, it seems you really like that one book,” the old man commented out of the blue, making me almost drop the book. He hasn’t spoken a word. Yet, as I looked towards the elderly man who was now standing next to me and looking at me with an even more amused expression, his smile hidden behind his long gray mustache, I was shocked into silence. I could only gape at him with my mouth hanging open, like a deer in the torchlight. He only smiled even more, his eyes crinkling at the sides, which suggested to me that he smiled a lot in his past.
“Hoho, you are quite amusing, miss,” the old man said once more, breaking the silence with his cheery laugh, and also breaking me out of my own surprise. My expression changed to a serious indifference.
“And why do you say that, sir.”
“The book.”
“What?” He was really starting to creep me out, this old man. He just continued to smile at me - and it was freaking me out. He was being too friendly and different from the other merchants who only wanted to try and sell things to you. I took a small step away from the old man.
It seemed like he could tell I had my guard up and was being cautious of the old man, because the crinkles around his eyes softened, meaning he wasn’t smiling anymore.
Without saying a word, he pointed with his right hand towards the book that I was holding tightly in my own two hands, which also suddenly reminded me that I was holding the book. Surprised, I quickly put the book down - more or less dropping it as if I was suddenly burned by it. My face was really hot.
The old man chuckled, his eyes crinkling once more in a way that showed he was smiling at me again. I felt so embarrassed, and I felt like he was making fun of me. I was starting to feel a bit angry at this old man, who was smiling at me with such a bemused expression on his face. Why was he laughing at me? Is it so strange that a poor person like me, who couldn’t read, be interested in a dingy old book like the one I previously held in my hands? How irritating, this old man.
With a huff and a glare towards the old man, I turned and left the stand; leaving the old man still smiling at me as he watched me leave. I didn’t turn around to see if the old man was still watching me, I just kept on walking away. I just walked, looking at the many other stands in the marketplace, trying to not think of the old man or the old leather bound book. But they both tugged at the edges of my mind, and soon the book and the creepy old man was all I could think about.
All day and all night, they were all I could think about. The strange old man, the strange book stand in the shadows of the marketplace, and the strange leather bound book that I unconsciously held tightly in my hands.
The next day, after thinking about nothing except the book all of last night, I found myself returning to the bookstand in the back of marketplace. I wanted to see if the stand was still there, and I wanted to see the book again. It was a strange feeling that had possessed me, this feeling of wanting something. The book was all I could think about, and I knew I wanted it.
As soon as I approached the stand, I immediately looked for the old man - but he wasn’t around. Confused, I looked around the stand for the old man, but he was nowhere to be found. Why was the old man not attending to his book stand? It was irresponsible of a merchant to leave his stand unattended, someone could steal everything he had and there was nothing he could do about it, because he wasn’t around to prevent it. I was concerned for the old man, but I didn’t think too much of it. I was more interested in the old book.
Quickly, I went to searching for it among the books, digging through the many stacks and examining each one, searching and searching until I found it, hidden in the very back. As I reached for the book and once more held it in my hands, I felt the need to open the binding of the book and view the pages between the covers. Slowly, I unwrapped the leather from the book and turning back one of the covers, revealing the pages hidden beneath. What I discovered stunned me into silence.
Gold. Golden pages. Pages that shimmered and shined in the sunlight, with a smooth and silky softness to them that made it hard to believe that the pages were still paper. Slowly, I turned the pages, revealing elegant penmanship that covered each and every page from top to bottom. It was beautiful.
At that moment, something in me clicked. Holding this book in my hands, I could feel something that I haven’t felt in years - something that I haven’t felt since my grandfather was alive. Looking at this book, with it’s beautiful golden pages and elegant handwriting, I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, blurring my vision. I quickly wiped them away, but they continued to come. I couldn’t stop, and soon I was crying like a sad little child, sobbing and hiccuping over something so silly. I hugged the book tightly to my chest, and as if taken over by some other worldly existence, I ran away from the book stand.
I ran as fast as I could, holding the book tightly to my chest and not letting it go, until I reached home. With the book still held tightly, I locked myself into my room and hid from the world. I had already realized what I had done, that I had stolen something that I shouldn’t have, and I didn’t wish to be found - for I knew that if I was, they would take the book away from me. My precious, precious book.
At that moment in my life, I have discovered the treasure that would evidently become a huge part of my life. The book, with its golden pages and leather binding, had changed ME. It caused me to be possessed by a sinful emotion of greed, and yet it had rescued me from the depths of loneliness that I was lost in due to my grandfather’s passing.
I have accepted my fate. I will go to hell for what I have done. Thievery is a crime that cannot be forgiven by the gods. But, I will do anything to protect my treasure, even sacrifice my life for it. I will do anything to keep my book safe.
My greed for the book is as golden as its pages.
