Orwyn’s Ring

Growing vegetables was old Tom’s passion. In the valley below Tillyvelyn, he would work the rich black loam. On summer evenings he would sit, smoking and gazing up at the ruins of Glebe farm, high in the valley.
Sometimes he’d see lights up there. Some said it was elves, others, teenagers fooling around. Once he’d climbed there with Scott, his collie, but Scott had whined, refusing to budge. Tom proceeded alone amongst tumbled chimneys and abandoned rooms, open to the sky. No one there, save sheep grazing in the dusk.
One day his spade hit something metallic and he picked up a small tarnished box. Inside was a tiny ring, dulled with age.
That night he dreamt of a diminutive figure dressed in green. Black eyes sparkled in a wizened face. “Greetings, I have come for Orwyn’s Ring!”
“No, finders keepers!”
“The ring is not man’s to keep.”
“Nonsense, begone!”
Tom awoke, sweating profusely and went for water. The box lay on the kitchen floor, empty. Scott’s eyes were wide open, ears pricked.
“Scott, did you knock the box over?”
The dog stared, alert.
Old Tom never found the ring, nor did he see lights up at the farm ever again.

Featured in the book, To Cut a Short Story Short: 111 Little Stories

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