There is absolutely no point in trying to address the growing environmental crisis, regardless which of the veritable smorgasbord of critical issues most concerns you, with top down political and economic solutions. The reason that there is no point is because there is about as much chance of those solutions making a difference as there is getting on a Barcelona bound train in Madrid and expecting to get off in Paris.
The poor, weary souls who really do give a damn about trying to save the planet are trying to convince the rest riding on the Barcelona bound train that if we all get up and walk to the back of the train, somehow we will delay our arrival long enough to actually change our destination.
Despite our high speed connectivity and remarkable scientific achievements, the human race is less “fit” to make the changes necessary to save our sorry souls today than we were fifty years ago. The reason for that is because there are too damn many of us, and we all want to have a say in what the solution should be.
In 1960 the world’s population was slightly over 3 billion. Today it is over 6 billion and expected to reach 7 billion by the end of next year. Despite declining population growth worldwide, census projections put the World’s population at 10 billion by 2060.
It is illogical to consider that the exponential increase in population, along with our unbridled leap forward in technology, is not directly connected to the exponential decline of our global ecosystems, and yet I repeatedly hear politicians and economists tell me that the solution to our problem is improvements in technology and the application of more money to more programs.
In the 1960s an American plant pathologist named Norman Borlaug advanced an idea that came to be called the “green revolution”. The original goal of the Green Revolution was to increase efficiency and boost the yields of cereal grain crops. Since populations were topping 3 billion, it was thought that if we produce more cereal grains we could decrease global food insecurity. The way to do that, Mr. Borlaug contended, was to genetically modify (GM) seeds to condition them to germinate in shorter periods of time and despite adverse climate conditions. The idea was good enough to win Mr. Borlaug a Nobel Peace Prize.
Backed by the money from the Rockefeller and Ford foundations, along with huge financings from the World Bank and American government, research commenced on the development of GM plant species, many of which were heavily pesticide dependant, and these “new world” seeds were shipped abroad to farmers who stripped their land of the rich plant diversity and moved toward a mono-crop culture. Within a short time the pesticides had ruined the soil, killed the good bugs as well as bad, had contaminated the farmer who had little or no training in the application of these poisons, and had bankrupted communities who couldn’t afford to pay for these expensive plant drugs. In short, it was a disaster!
Yet, even today we continue down that path, following those who cry out for us to hitch our fate to the wagon of technology, scientific advancement and international financing through the World Bank. Those are the voices that have convinced the politicians to let them drill for oil deep in our oceans without the capacity to halt a catastrophic disaster that results from a blow out. Similar voices have convinced Obama to once again roll the nuclear dice for domestic power production, risking far more than the ecosystem of the Gulf States. And they can do so because the average amongst us is wrapped in a foetal sack of ignorance and disinterest, firmly attached to the umbilical cord of commerce.
The prophets of the 1960s, like E.F. Schumacher, Amory Lovins, Rachel Carson and Donella and Dennis Meadows all put forward thoughtful and visionary approaches to solutions within their various fields of endeavour. Sadly, their good works were co-opted. Their ideas infused within the populus vox vocis played to us through the instruments of the state. We all climbed aboard a train bound for Barcelona, told by those who run it, “next stop Paris”.
Don’t look to the politicians, and certainly don’t look to science or technology to fix the problems. It is up to us to get off the train. In order to do that we need to pull the brake cord on our race toward the global madness of unlimited consumption, and learn the lessons so patiently taught us in the mid-twentieth century. Limits to growth economic models are not only ok, they are imperative if we are to survive the demands of the growing number of people who now and will soon roam this earth.

The International Monetary Fund is calling on the G20 governments to impose a new bank tax to help pay for the bailouts and deficits caused by the global financial crisis. Our Finance Minister Flaherty is rallying Canadians in support of the banks as though we should be defending against an assault on our national hockey team.
While Canadians might all agree that a tax on Canadian banks as suggested by the International Monetary Fund is unwarranted, let’s not kid ourselves into thinking that these massive public corporations shouldn’t pay their fair share in domestic tax. The banks are not benevolent citizens looking out for the welfare of average Canadians, although they spend millions in advertising each year to have you believe otherwise.
Canada’s big five banks, the Royal Bank, CIBC, Bank of Montreal, Scotiabank, and TD Canada Trust, are the largest corporations in Canada if one uses asset value as the measure. They control 70% of all our money on deposit in Canada. They determine 80% of small business lending and hold over 80% of the assets in the investment brokerage industry. They own all but two of the large trust companies and the majority of consumer credit and mortgage lending.
Like any corporation, management’s only concern is to provide a good return to their shareholders. But that is where the similarity with other corporations ends.
Most corporations are built upon a base of shareholder investment, but not our banks; they use your money. In fact, the hard earned money of over 20 million Canadians and the majority of Canadian businesses makes up 95% of the total capital base of the banks. Shareholder investment totals only 5%.
Ironically it is the fact that the banks control so much of your money and hold so much of your debt that has put them into the “too big to fail” category. So if poor business practice causes one or more of them to falter, your tax dollars will make them whole, but certainly not you. Even in good times, banks do little to help the average Canadian family or small and medium size business.
Consider that most of the consumer credit is owned by the banks, and then take a look at the interest rate they are charging on your credit card. Add that to the service fees they charge for virtually every transaction, and then try to secure a small business loan. In truth banks don’t lend you money, they sell you access to your money. The terms will always be in their favour, the price is a premium, and they take little or no risk. They certainly do not invest in you, your family, or your home or company despite what their advertising might say.
Canadian banks sell (lend) about $600 billion to businesses a year. Of that total, only 3% of loans go to small businesses that require loans under $100,000, and about 20% to medium size businesses with loans up to $5 million. The remaining 77% goes to big business in loans well over $5 million.
Ironically, much of the big business lending finances large international corporate enterprise outside of Canadian borders, and yet it is the small and medium-sized business sector that has created 90% of the jobs in Canada since 1983 and currently employs half of all working Canadians, who in turn put their hard earned money back into the bank and are paid peanuts in interest for this “privilege”.
Having myself served as a Provincial Finance Minister, I can understand why our federal Minister of Finance Jim Flaherty has been quick to rise to the defence of the banks stating, “We’re not going to punish our banks for the fact that they have acted responsibly,” but what I don’t understand is why he has not told Canadians that the banks have had the benefit of over $200-billion via a low-interest line of credit from Ottawa. Neither has he reminded us his Conservative government has gifted the banks over $4 billion in corporate tax reductions. Nor did he mention that any compliance the Canadian banks had with Canadian banking regulations was done reluctantly, with loud and frequent protests by our banks that they were overregulated and couldn’t compete with the other banks on a level playing field.
The Conservatives while in opposition supported the banks demands for deregulation to match that of the American banking system. Good thing the federal Liberals of the day didn’t listen!
Canada’s financial sector has averaged $50-billion a year in before-tax profits since 2005. Even during the 2009 recession, our banks and financial partners still racked up an impressive $44-billion in profits. Incredibly, during 2009, a year with record personal and small business bankruptcies, rising unemployment and numerous home foreclosures, the financial sector, which employs just 6% of Canadian workers, managed to earn profits of over 25%.
So while I might agree that the IMF has no business telling Canadian banks that they need to pay into an international fund for bank bailouts, Canadians should become increasingly aware of the huge profits that are being made by these institutions with every uptick in both privately and publicly held debt.
Canadian banks are uniquely positioned to be profitable and hold protected status within our economy. They didn’t survive 2009 simply through sound management, but did so hand in hand with the Bank of Canada and the federal government.
Finance ministers are uniquely positioned to set a new economic course, and Mr. Flaherty has been handed a golden opportunity to do so now that he has the banks’ attention. It seems to me that the compassion that Mr. Flaherty has for the Canadian banks is misplaced. What he should do is recognize that it is the hard work of the Canadian people that has built these institutions, and protect the people from usury as applied to credit card interest rates by capping the upper limit. He should compel the banks to lend to small and medium sized business at affordable rates, and have a compulsory public audit of accounts to make sure that they are doing so.
Banks sell the wealth of the people for profit. Mr. Flaherty should make sure that a fair percentage of those profits come home to benefit the people who have made them possible.

Chapter 28

The wolf wound in my thigh was itchy so without thinking I reached down to scratch it and my heart missed a beat. The jagged wound had been stitched. I rubbed my finger along the coarse stitching. I touched the wound in my side. Stitched! What in hell? My head was spinning. How long have I been sleeping? I tried to understand what my senses were telling me. The room was in motion. I blinked and struggled against a restraint that held me on my bed. I struggled to see something, anything, in the dark, dank room.
Outside I heard voices. Where am I? My arms were free so I pulled on the rope that tied me to my bed. Why am I tied! The rescue plan, I have to get up! I started to panic, I had no idea where I was, and yet I knew that I had to meet the servant girl, Nelly Bass, at the servant gate at sunrise. I couldn’t think clearly. The damp smell of saltwater-cured wood was all too familiar to me. I untied the ropes and rolled out of the bunk. My weak legs collapsed and the violent roll of the room caused me to fall with a thump onto a hard wooden floor. Suddenly, sickeningly, I knew I was not in a tavern keeper’s room. I am at sea!
Crawling to overcome the pitch and roll, I reached a set of narrow wooden steps, pulled myself up and pushed hard to open the hatch. A wall of water crashed into me.
“Close that hatch!” A sailor tied to the capstan yelled above the howling wind.
I grabbed a wooden rail next to the hatch-frame to prevent being swept away by wind and water. Lying flat on the soaking deck, I kicked the hatch door closed.
“William, go below and seal your hatchway!” The voice was unmistakable. My uncle James stood braced at the steering station leaning into the wind, next to the helmsman. Holding tight to the wooden rail, I ducked as a second wave washed over me. “We need a man aloft to secure those lines!” James yelled and a soaked figure crawled along the deck toward the mainmast rigging.
The storm we were sailing through was nothing compared to the storm of emotion that raged in me. I have been betrayed! Rational thought flew from my mind like the spray from the raging waves. At that moment I didn’t care if I lived or died. I had been stolen and all hope of saving Helen stolen with me.
My face wet with seawater and tears of rage, I scrambled toward James. He is responsible! He betrayed me! As I reached the short step that led up to the stern deck and steering station, a monstrous wave crashed over the rail, hitting me broadside and washing me down the deck head first through a wide scupper and into the churning lips of the frothing ocean.
Just as my head plunged into the water, a strong hand gripped my heel and pulled me back on board. Gasping to regain my breath, I reached out and took the hand of the sailor who had saved me from a watery grave. The broad shouldered man pulled us both back along the deck by hauling on a rope tied to the capstan. He put a tether under both my arms and around my chest and synched me to his own line.
“What the hell were you thinking?” The sailor put his arm over me as another huge wave crashed over the side.
“I shouldn’t be here. He betrayed me.” I pointed to James and shivered as the wind lashed my face with stinging beads of water.
“Aye, well if we survive this storm, I am sure there will be plenty of time to settle the matter.”
The ship heaved rising to the crest of a giant wave, then plunged down the other side, pounding into the ocean at the trough. I held on for all I was worth, thankful that we built sounds ships in Freswick bay. Confronting my Uncle would have to wait.

THE END
 

#
Ruth fought back the voices in her head. They had returned in a screaming frenzy. This had to be done. It was the only way. She held her head with both hands as if to stop it splitting in half from the growing pressure within. Her eyes focused on the battlement as she walked through the arched doorway into the driving rain. Don’t be a fool. Freedom is finally here. Kill her, kill them all. She tried not to listen, but the closer she came to the edge, the shriller the voices became. Her body trembled, her mind reeled. She could no longer hear the wind howling around her, only the voices. One step up, then… one step over. How easy it will be. Stop! Stop there is another way, a better way! Those had been her words. The same words she used to beg the butcher not to cut her. But he ripped her open and stole Helen from her body.
In her mind Ruth saw the flash of the steel knife, felt the pain of the blade, then the darkness pierced only by the sharp light that stole through the window of her room; that silent, lonely room. That image had haunted her. Only the swallows outside her window gave her peace from it. How high they flew, rising with the wind. Ruth spread her arms wide and felt the wind lift her off the battlement. She could fly, just like the swallows. The voices in her head combined in a scream, silent to all except a smiling Ruth.
#
James Gunn stepped aside as his nephew Henry put his muscular arm under William’s shoulders. “Get the other end of him, Torquil. We’ll carry him down, Uncle.”
“Is he awake?” Torquil asked. “His eyes are open.”
“He is filled with opiate, he’ll no’ remember anything of this.” James certainly hoped that was the case as he watched Henry lift William’s head and shoulders while Torquil took his legs. Together they raised him off the bed and carried him out of the small room, and down the narrow stairs to the main room of the tavern.
“He’s breathing right enough and his eyes are open,” James said to Thomas Sinclair. “Does he know what’s happening around him?”
“It was a strong opiate, and the lad was very tired. I fear I may have given him a wee bit too much, but it won’t kill him.” Thomas, using his finger, gently lifted one of William’s fallen eyelids, and then put his fingers to the pulse point on William’s neck. “His eyes are clear enough, and his heart steady. He may drift in an out of consciousness for a day or so, but when he comes around he should act normally.”
“Take him to the horses, we must leave. He can ride with you Henry.” James turned to Thomas. “Thank you, friend. I believe you saved his life.”
Thomas smiled and walked with James out of the tavern to the rain-soaked horses. Torquil hoisted William up in front of Henry who grabbed his brother around the waist and held him tightly.
“How far do you have to go?”
“No more than two hours ride. There is a protected shallow in Sinclair’s Bay. The ship has sailed south from Freswick, that’s where I will meet her.” James told Thomas, who held Torquil’s horse for him.
“Will you all go to sea?” Thomas asked.
“Not me,” Henry said, turning his horse toward the village road.
“Nor I,” Torquil added and heeled his horse to fall in line with Henry.
“I am in your debt, Thomas.” James kicked on his horse and the three were soon in a gentle canter the horses hooves splashing in the puddles on the road that led north past the Keith castle. When they reached the crest of a small rise, James pulled up and the others followed.
“Something out of the ordinary is going on down there.” James looked toward the castle where guards were running and shouting. A vegetable merchant rode his empty wagon up the winding road toward them. He slowed as he passed.
“If you’re coming for the wedding best turn around.” The man said through the driving rain.
“And, why is that?” James asked.
“The reluctant bride just threw herself off the high tower into the sea. Having met the groom, I can’t say I blame her.” The man held out his handless right arm, shook his head, and whipped his horses forward.
The three men looked at each other. Henry hugged William’s limp body. “Sorry little brother,” he whispered in his ear and then rode with the others past the castle.

#
“Sound the alarm!” The shout came from atop the right battlement, “Hey! Hey! Sound the Alarm; someone has just fallen from the far tower!”
Shorty, ears pricked, head down ran hard into the Jacko’s back knocking him head over heal. The boy, free of Jacko’s grip tried to get hold of Shorty’s rein, but the horse was too fast and reared high kicking his hooves at the scared boy who turned and ran causing the other guard to run after him. Shorty whinnied and circled Helen stamping the ground with his hooves.
Nelly, eyes wide and mouth open looked at Helen. “She’s given you freedom. Don’t waste it. Go! Go on!.”
Shorty pushed his head under Helen’s arm and she needed no further urging. She threw herself onto Shorty’s back. “I don’t even know your name,” she asked just as Jacko scrambled back to his feet.
“It’s Nelly. Now get out before you infect us all.” Nelly threw her arms around Jacko who held his back, still shaken by Shorty’s attack. “Protect me, Jacko.”
“I’ll never forget you Nelly.” Helen didn’t have to give Shorty the signal to run. She held on tightly as the little horse leapt from standing to full gallop in two strides. He raced through the rain away from the castle. As they reached the crest of a rise Helen noticed an empty wagon in the far distance and pulled him up.
“Not that way Shorty.” She turned him northward and the two galloped along the ridge until they came to a fork in the road. Both choices would lead her north, the road on her left up onto higher ground and through the highland, the road on her right down toward the water following the coast. She looked behind and to her great relief saw no one following. She was about to take the coastal road when she noticed further ahead three riders crest a rise of land. Fearful that they would be Keiths, she turned Shorty toward the highland road.
“Take me to William, Shorty.” Shorty turned and started down the coastal road, but Helen pulled him back. “Not that way.” She urged him on, but Shorty stood his ground looking down the coastal road. “Come on, Shorty, we have to go.”
With ears back, and a last glance down the coastal road, Shorty turned and with a nod of his head, cantered up the steep highland road that would lead them north to Freswick Bay.

Nelly pulled on Helen’s hand as the two made their way down the narrow stone stairway to the long hallway. “I will try to sneak you out the gate. Keep your head down. Act like you are a sick servant girl. And don’t look anyone in the eye.”
Nelly pulled Helen largely ignored, through a group of women who were unloading baskets of leeks, onion and cabbage. To her great relief the gate was still open. “When we are outside just keep walking, don’t run. You are almost free.”
“Will you come with me?”
“Na, my place is here with my mum and Nan. Look at that you’re free!”
“Hey! Stand right where you are!” Nelly froze and Helen looked down.
They were a few paces beyond the gate and Nelly cursed through her teeth. “It’s Jacko,” she whispered. “Don’t say a word. You’re sick. Very sick with something catching.” She looked into Jacko’s enquiring eyes and tried to smile. Inside she was terrified.
“Who’s this? You’re not going to tell me she’s Fergus.” Jacko held out a long wooden staff and tucked the end under Helen’s chin gently raising it to see her face. “Jacko, I wouldn’t get too close, she’s sick. Let me take her out or we’ll all get the cough.” Nelly nodded her head at Helen, hoping Jacko would not see her coaxing. “It’s the cough, Jacko.” Nelly smiled behind Jacko’s back as Helen coughed, but Jacko did not back up.
“This is no servant that I have seen before. I would remember such a beautiful face. She doesn’t look sick to me.” The guard removed his staff and put his hand beneath Helen’s chin and lifted her head higher. “Come with me,” he ordered, and pulled Helen by the arm toward the covered stable.
Nelly sidled up to Jacko trying to avoid the puddles as she walked. “Where are you going? She is sick I tell you. Will you stop for a moment, Jacko?”
“We’ll get to the stable and out of this fowl wind and rain. Then I want some answers Nelly.”
Nelly quickly caught up and tightly held onto Helen’s free hand. She knew Jacko well. After all she would bed him from time to time in exchange for favors. But, she was not the only servant who bought favor from the guards in that manner. There would be a limit to Jacko’s help. Besides, she was sure that he had recognized Helen.
“Ah, Jacko just the man I was coming to see.” A guard approached holding a young boy by the scruff of his neck. “This lad claims he was invited to the castle by Dugald himself. He says this gold Keith medallion, proves it.” He opened his palm to show Jacko a gold coin.
“Don’t move, either of you!” Jacko ordered the two women. “See to it that they don’t, while I deal with this boy,” Jacko ordered the guard.
“He rode up on that excuse for a horse as bold as can be, showed me this coin and said that Dugald himself had told him to come to the castle.” The guard chucked as he walked toward Helen and Nelly.
Nelly looked at the boy, but it was the horse that seemed to catch Helen’s attention.
“Where did you get that horse?” Helen suddenly asked the boy, and Nelly dropped her hand and took a step away.
“Be quiet or they will arrest us both,” she whispered
The boy, stood rigid. “It’s mine.”
“No it isn’t.” Helen walked toward the boy. “Where’s the man who owns that horse? This boy is a thief!”
Jacko grabbed hold of the boy, and looked at Nelly who felt panic creeping through her as she stared at Helen who stared at the horse that, with big eyes, and ears erect actually seemed to smile back. For a moment nobody moved.