Miser’s Paradise
In the murky forest, fallen leaves squelch underfoot, and the air smells mouldy as Jochem the Miser approaches a gnarled oak. He nods at the modest wooden cross that marks it. Then, inch by painful inch, he sinks to his knees. He begins to dig, his trowel’s blade clanking against acorns and stones.
Something stirs. Jochem snaps to attention, craning his neck this way and that, but it’s just a mangy raven, perched above. Jochem chucks a rock at it. The bird squawks and flaps away.
A few more trowel thrusts, and Jochem uncovers his gleaming stash of gold. He dips both hands into the coins, letting them slip between his fingers. As the precious metal kisses his flesh, he gasps.
Rosa’s hair had been golden. Other men had coveted her, and Jochem had taken such pleasure in hoarding her, but even Rosa’s beauty never compared to this.
At last, soothed by the gold’s healing touch, Jochem reburies it and limps home. Without lighting a fire, he crawls into bed. Rosa would have complained at the chill, but why waste saleable kindling on fleeting comfort?
Unable to resist, he returns the next day, bearing his trowel like a sceptre. He works diligently, but there is no trace of his coins.
He digs faster, his heartbeat lurching. Even when Kurt the Blacksmith clip-clops toward him on horseback, Jochem doesn’t pause. Rosa had always been overly kind to that man. Once or twice Jochem had wondered . . . but why revisit past agonies?
Kurt peers down. “What’re you doing?”
Jochem keeps digging. “Searching.”
“For what?”
“My treasure. Everything I own.” Jochem stops frantically burrowing and glares at Kurt. “Unless someone stole it.”
“Surely you’re imagining things?” Kurt’s voice drops. “Yet again?”
“How dare you!” Hunching a shoulder at Kurt, Jochem scrabbles into the dirt. The gold must be there.
Kurt stares into the hole. In a gentle tone, he says, “Sir, you are a fine excavator. If you need money, perhaps you could get a job digging.”
“You’re an idiot. And more than likely a thief.”
The bridle jingles as Kurt trots away.
Jochem scrabbles deeper into the ground. Years ago, he buried Rosa and her unnamed infant nearby. He carved that cross for her grave—but nothing for the child. It had deprived him of a cherished possession.
Without Rosa and, far more importantly, without gold, life has no meaning. Jochem keeps digging. When the hole is deep enough, he climbs in. The clay is cold but somehow welcoming. He scoops soil over his face, inhaling leaf rot but also fading hints of his gold’s seductive, metallic tang. Again and again, he drops handfuls of dirt over himself until breathing becomes impossible.
A white tunnel shimmers, lined with coins. They glitter, enticing him closer. At its end, Rosa beckons. She holds no mewling child, thank god.
Jochem smiles as his soul slips into his miser’s paradise. Everything sparkles. Gold surrounds him, and Rosa’s love is his, and nobody else’s, forever.
