THE PROSPECTOR'S CHOICE

by Larry Harpel

(How we live is based upon how we choose to react.)

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There once was an old prospector who had decided, many years before when he was a young prospector, that he would live a solitary life. For, after all, if he were ever to find any gold, why in the world would he want to share it with anyone else?

One day, around dusk, he and his mule were trudging back to camp after many long hours of panning and digging. His mule's saddlebags were filled, not with gold, but with smooth stones that the old prospector liked to touch but were otherwise worthless. He would take these rocks back to camp and, after dinner, one by one, hurl them off the cliff, screaming in fury at all the gods and fates that he believed controlled his unlucky life. Then, spent by the effort, but somehow also relieved by it, he would fall asleep next to the flickering fire, mumbling curses until his snoring took their place.

So the old man was stumbling along, muttering and spitting tobacco juice, when he suddenly heard a voice, which bellowed: "Oldman! Old man!"

Well, the prospector whirled around quickly toward the direction of the voice, but saw no one. He pulled his rifle from his mule's pack and shouted, threateningly, "Who's there!?! Show y'self!" But there was no reply. The old man shook his head; sometimes the wind could play tricks.

But he hadn't taken more than a few steps when the voice returned, startling him: "Old man! Don't be afraid. Reach into your saddlebags and take out some stones and tomorrow at high noon, you will be both happy and sad..."

He fired his gun at the voice, which now seemed to be coming from every direction. "Show yerself, ya yeller varmint! Come out here and face me like a man!" But again, there was no reply. The old man shivered, reached into his knapsack for his bottle of whiskey, took a deep pull and hurried, undisturbed but wary, back to his camp.

That night, he hurled his stones more furiously than he had ever done before, then fell into a fitful, dream-filled sleep, in which his mind took him back to his early youth, to the days when he played with his comrades, when he and his friends would race through the fields together, inventing new games with every new day. He awoke to a strange sensation, an unfamiliar calm, a smile. As he blinked his eyes open, though, he saw and remembered where and who he was, and grumbled in disappointment, "Voices! Dreams! Who needs 'em?!?". Angrily, he saddled his mule and stormed off to prospect another day.

He labored hard this day. He dug deeply, sharply attacking every stone that glinted in his direction, demanding that it give up its prize. He dug until his knuckles bled, but found no gold, only some pyrite and some crystal. "Pretty, 'tis pretty", he thought briefly, "but worthless!" And he loaded them onto his mule, a hefty load of pretty, worthless rock. "They'll make good throwin', they will", he muttered. Tired and frustrated, he began his trek back to camp.

He couldn't remember being this exhausted in many years. He tried to think back, but time seemed to swim in his head. He not only forgot how old he might have become, but he couldn't even find a vision of himself, conjure up when the last time was that he'd seen a clear reflection of himself. He stopped his plodding march and leaned against his mule. The animal was warm with sweat, breathing deeply, seeming to engulf the old man with each inhale. "What's this beast's name?", the prospector asked himself. "I named it. I'm sure I named it." He took the animal's head in his hands and peered into first one eye and then the other. When was the last time he'd looked it in the eyes? He realized, finally, that he had never done so.

The wind picked up. The mule brayed as if in premonition. The old prospector gently calmed him. "Old man!", the voice bellowed. "Old man!" This time the prospector did not reach for his weapon. He didn't have the strength.

"Wh...what do you want from me?", he asked. "Won't you leave me alone?"

"Old man", the voice replied, "don't fear me. Listen to me. Reach into your saddle-bags and take out some rocks. Some pretty, worthless rocks and tomorrow, at highnoon, you will be both happy and sad. Do it, old man, just do it..."

The prospector hesitantly reached into his saddle-bag, took out a handful of rocks and put it into his pocket.

When he awoke the next morning, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten back to camp. What he knew for sure was that he was bone weary. Maybe he wouldn't prospect today. Maybe he'd just lie back down and sleep a while longer.

The old prospector drifted off into a dream. He was young again, almost at manhood, still full of promise. He was on his way to see his first love. He joyfully picked some wild-flowers and laughed out loud at the thought of how he could tease her with them, of how much she loved them. Of how much she loved him. He could taste the sweetness of her lips, was dizzy with her scent, which he smelled in everything...

But then he saw them. Two looking like one.

At the moment, he couldn't make out who “the other” was; it didn't matter; the young man’s eyes were fixed on her. He watched her lips press against the “other’s”; he watched her body accept the weight of this “other.” The young man felt his shoulders sag, felt the flowers drop from his hand. He knelt to retrieve them, but they had turned to stone. He was suddenly very tired, too tired to stand. The young man fell to the ground.

And in the prospector’s sleep, the young man slept, and in his dream the young man dreamed a dream.

In the young man’s dream, he was younger still, just a boy now, innocent and full of promise. He was with his closest friend. They were playing catch in a beautiful meadow. Back and forth the ball flew, each time a little further, each time stretching their skills. All was right with the world. Without warning, his playmate's face turned from warmth to anger. The young boy didn't know what he had done. In a frozen silence, his playfellow turned his back and walked away. The young boy watched his playfellow disappear. He felt his shoulders sag, felt the suddenly heavy ball drop from his hand. It had turned to stone. The young boy fell to the ground and curled up in a ball.

The old prospector woke himself up with his own wimpering. His face and beard were wet with tears. The sun was high and bright in the sky. It was mid-day, noon. He recalled the voice, reached into his pocket and pulled out the handful of rocks. He stared into his hand, blinked and blinked again. The pretty, worthless rock had turned to gold, the purest, yellowest gold he'd ever seen. He scrambled to his feet and ran to his saddle-bags, but the bags were still filled with rocks.

And the old prospector, who had once been a young prospector and, before that, a hopeful young man, and before that, an innocent young boy was, indeed, both happy and sad. He clutched the gold to his bosom. He was happy that he had taken some but sad, so very sad, that he had not taken more, that he had not been able, had not been willing, had not been ready to choose more.