Legend

The malachite at the heart of Essen Jara’s Malachite Gem was green as moss after rain, streaked with wavy bands like the rings of a tree. Around it the setting burst into wild leaves, so sharp they scratched the fingers at every touch.

On the shortest night of the year the whole countryside gathered in the forest for the festival. Bonfires blazed and the circle of dancers spun ever faster. Only the miller stood under an oak, arms folded across his chest. For years he had done everything the same way, and no one could remember the last time he had laughed.

“Merriment is for the young and the foolish,” he growled when Essen stopped in front of him.

Essen pinned the gem to his shirt. The sharp leaves caught in the linen and pricked his chest.

“Dance.”

The miller resisted, but Essen pulled him into the circle. The first step dragged like a sack of flour. The second was lighter. After the third he no longer knew who was leading whom. By dawn he was laughing and could not stop.

“Joy doesn’t come to those who stand aside,” said Essen. “You have to go into the thicket after it, even if it scratches.”

The next day the miller straightened the millstone that had always sat crooked. The Malachite Gem came back to Essen with a thread from his shirt caught in its sharp leaves.