The Promise
Stephen was a normal enough fellow, and he followed a very predictable routine. A toymaker by trade, he woke in the morning, packed his tools, and went to his office to carry on the family business. The sign on the door read “Stephen and Sons,” but that was his father’s sign. His father had passed some time ago and left the store to him and his brother, Daniel. Eventually, Daniel had left to go work in a clock factory, adding to his wind-up toy knowledge ideas in advanced engineering to develop ever more complex clocks, some that only had to be wound once every fifteen years. One of these is what awoke Stephen this morning, chiming with the predictable call of the coo-coo bird. He arose, kissed his wife, once again packed his tools, and left to his modest, if not reliable, job in the little toy shop in the village.
This was his calling, and not some job in the big, bustling city. The gleams of joy on the faces of the children who came into his shop, wondering at every invention that he’d made, and every toy that he’d personally assembled by his own designs. The walls of his shop were adorned with shelves, altogether holding nearly a hundred years of toys. His shop had the fortunate location of being just on the corner of the only bridge leaving Evoation into the wider world beyond, and so a good number of his shoppers were visitors from other parts of the world. He liked the idea that his toys kept children happy outside of Evoation, as well as in the sleepy little town.
But he had a problem. Every year, the materials to build his toys became more and more expensive. He’d noticed it first five years before, when his wood went up to ten dollars a plank. After five years had passed, he was up to nearly twenty dollars a plank. This winter, as he went through his budget, he scratched his head and pushed up his glasses as he summed the profits of the last year. They were not equivalent to his expenses. In fact, he had spent almost half again what he’d earned. One glance at the line that showed his savings told him that he had at most another year or two before his shop would go under.
So on the blustery, snowy evening when the largest toy manufacturer in the known world came into his home, offering to annex his little shop to the toy manufacturer’s already massive empire, Stephen listened.
“You can do everything just as you do now,” promised the portly man with a laugh and a twinkle in his eye. “Just you send me ten percent of the profits, and I’ll send you the wood that I get. I have a massive discount because I use so much, you see, and you can be part of that. It’s an economy of scale.”
Stephen’s wife, Karen, sat next to him at the table, with worry across her brow. She gave him a glance that told him not to do it, and Stephen heeded her glance and said that he would think about it.
“A wise man,” said the boisterous man. “And you married well too, I can see that. I’ll give you a week to think it over, but I really must then retract my offer. Business awaits in other locations. I have only so much time and money, and it doesn’t do to not use both efficiently.”
Over the next week, Stephen tossed and turned, having dreams repeatedly about the man’s offer, and about the red ink on his balance sheets. By the time the week had passed, he’d convinced himself that the man’s offer was good. Stephen sent a letter to the man indicating as much, over his wife’s protestations. The man sent a contract back, and Stephen signed it straightaway, and for the first year, things were spectacular. The man sent the wood at pennies on the dollar, and Stephen made his toys, and sold his toys, and brought joy to the faces of the children.
The next year, the price of wood yet again went up. Along with a letter from the man that said how apologetic he was, and that the price had gone up on him as well. It was still cheaper than before, so Stephen felt that his deal had been a good one. The man also sent that year a few boxes of the man’s toys, manufactured somewhere Stephen had never been or seen, and asked that Stephen display them in the windows alongside his own toys. This Stephen did eagerly, as the man had helped him so much that Stephen thought it was still a bargain.
It was around this time that a different man brought his son in looking for toys for a Christmas celebration. That man, Albert, was a regular and lived on the other side of town, so hadn’t frequented the shop often. But as soon as he walked in, Albert noticed the toys in the window, and pulled Stephen aside.
“Those toys,” he said, pointing. “Those were made by Hinderson Toys, right?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, a bit concerned as to the man’s tone.
“You know I’m a woodworker. I used to chop down trees in the forest just beyond the church to the west. That is, until Hinderson put a fence up. A few years back, Hinderson bought the land back there, and now I have to buy wood from him. The price is so high that it keeps me barely able to feed my son. We saved for months to come buy a toy from you, but I don’t think we can. Not when you’re working with Hinderson.”
That moment, the man took his son and left. The boy’s face was what impacted Stephen the most. He saw the longing, aching pain that he as a child had felt so often when he’d seen toys that he wanted but couldn’t have.
That year, he got another letter. This one said that soon, he would find an entire crate of toys from Hinderson that he was expected to put up. And, the letter continued, that the price of wood had gone up on him again. This time, the price was even higher than he had ever had before, and his entire savings would be wiped out if he made any more toys. So it was with a heavy heart that he replaced all of the displayed toys he’d made with love and affection for the machined things that were now in the window. And it was with an even heavier heart that he realized the truth. He wasn’t a toymaker any longer, as he couldn’t afford to make toys anymore.
The man he’d trusted, he realized, had been the same man who’d caused the price of wood to go up in the first place. He’d been tricked, but now, there was nothing to be done. As he talked it over with his wife, she asked why he didn’t just send the toys back and refuse to sell them. But it was too late. He hadn’t made any new toys to sell, and even if he had, they’d be more expensive to make and sell than anything Hinderson sent him. He told her they’d just have to make do, and for a while, they did.
The next year, another letter came from the man. This one said that things were bad for toys everywhere, and Stephen would have to pay for the Hinderson toys that he now sold in the window. Stephen couldn’t afford to pay for the toys for resale. He told the man this, and the man sent another letter. This letter said that if Stephen wanted to sell his shop, Stephen could stay and work it for a salary. Stephen didn’t see that he had a choice, so he did exactly that. For a while, Stephen and his wife lived off of the proceeds of that sale, but when his savings were used up, he found himself reliant on the money the man gave him for salary.
When the man sent a letter the next year, saying that the toy business was still suffering, but he was sure that it would be better soon. However, in the meantime, Stephen would have to take a pay cut. Barely able to afford to feed himself and his wife, Stephen threw the letter into the fire in frustration. He packed his clothes and set off across the long bridge.
It took him some time to get to Hinderson Toys Headquarters, and when he did, he was appalled at what he saw. Warehouses were full to overflowing with wood, some of which looked as though it had been there for years. Three separate toy stores were connected to the property, each with lines of people out the door. Through one window, he saw the portly man and stormed in. The man didn’t appear to be suffering at all, despite this supposed blight on toy sales. He confronted the man, and the man only laughed in that boisterous way that made his belly bounce up and down.
“You believed me,” he said, snickering. “It’s not my fault you didn’t check first and find out who I am. How do you think I built my empire in the first place.”
It was then that Stephen realized he’d been tricked, and tricked completely. If you go into Evoation today, you’ll see Stephen and Sons toys, and a wall full of toys for sale, all at reasonable prices. There, however, is nobody named Stephen working there any longer. But just outside the front, under a sheet of newspapers, you may find him still, asleep under a bench, muttering seemingly nonsense words about promises broken.
