The old timer sits by his fire pit, puffing on a robust blend in his pipe, gazing at the fist-sized emerald laid on one of the rocks. People gone be coming for that.
He idly scratches his greying beard. He’s not sure what he’s going to do when they come. He’s got a family in the house yonder, not just a wife, kids, and grandkids, but the folks that work here as well, and their families, meeting here as they do most nights, before departing back to their houses across the county. But here is their home. The kind of people who’ll be after this emerald won’t care none for all that.
He is not a violent man and he is not a greedy man. Used to be, back when he was younger, before he had matured into the man he is now. But this emerald belongs here. Mined out in the valley generations ago by his forefathers, recently returned to them after half a century. He won’t sell it. Won’t give it up to the many strange people who keep coming inquiring about it. He has some hold over them that he doesn’t share. It does something more than flicker with green flames in the light of the fire.
So it’ll have to go. Not worth risking a hair on the heads of any of his people. He stretches, stands, and goes over to the shed to get his hammer.
Paddy Dobson
26th November 2022