Ruth: Reimagined

Amos

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Amos
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Amos held a roll of papyrus paper in his hands, reading through hieroglyphics, written in black ink. Hearing the sound of rambunctious  laughter that elicited out of the mouth of children, he groaned.

Five kids, two girls and three boys, stepped foot into the  quaint, wood shop— Engraved. With bells at the door, polished floors, and an array of art pieces in each aisle. Their laughter, which was infectiously loud outside, turned into a held in snickers that made naughty smiles cross their faces.

They spread out, the two boys and three girls, looking around the shop, staring intently at certain things, pretending to be vastly interested in some pieces.

“Made in China,” one of the boys commented, holding a small wood, carved fireplace, with finer details.

“No, in Egypt, everything was made there.” The second boy said, and the third, tried speaking throughout his contained laughter. Wheezing so hard, he  slapped  his knees. It made the girls who watched from the second aisle  laugh.

“Probably…” he cut through his unbearable laughter, “It…was…probably,” he coughed, “made in the garden…of Eden.”

This made the girls who had been more quiet erupt in soft giggles, and the boys went ballistic, adding more comments on where the piece could've been made.

Amos cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the children. With a stoic expression on his face, he spoke, annoyance tinged into his tone. “It was made here, in Moab. Everything here was made here.”

The children were shocked into silence of his acknowledgment of them, almost like they thought they were invisible.

He looked away from them, focusing back on the papyrus and reading. The children, in all of their foolish innocence, went back to strolling around the woodshop, staring intently at the wood, making profound comments that made no sense and holding back giggles.

Their big doe eyes flicked to Amos, from time to time, the real sight they came to behold. His right eye was brown. His left eye, on the other hand, was blind but it stared back at people, observant, almost like it was an all-seeing eye. His skin was a shade darker than the moabite sand, made up of wrinkles. He was quite thin, with long fingers.  His beard was long, and white, well maintained, his head, a shining, baldness.

Amos may have been the oldest man in the area, but he never revealed his age, always, smirking in the direction of kids, who whispered loud enough for him to hear. Things like “he met Father Abraham,” or “he saw the beginning of time” or his favourite,  which was, “he is the son of Adam—"

“But that would mean I killed my brother.”

The children looked up, caught off guard, their  wheezing —suppressed laughter coming to a halt.

Amos cleared his throat, a spark in his right eye. “Would it not?”

They whispered among themselves, eyes urgent, a few of the boys, ready, to make a run for it. One boy, who was about a head taller than all of them, stepped forward, grabbing a random thing on the shelf, and he made his way towards Amos.

He placed it on the counter. “I'd like to know how much this is, Sir Amos.” He spoke hastily, louder than intended, cringing at the sound of his voice.