The Dwarfs of San Miguel Village – A Hidden World Beneath the Stones

“Eduardo, stay away from that clearing of flat rocks,” my grandma called out, her voice sharp with urgency.

“Why?” I asked, stopping mid-step.

“Because if you’re not careful, the magical dwarfs who live under those rocks might hear you—and they don’t take kindly to visitors.”

“What?” I said, eyes wide with curiosity and wonder.

“Yes,” she nodded. “See that flat, circular rock over there? That’s the entrance to their underground camp. That’s where they climb out at night.”

I was stunned. Magical dwarfs? Could it really be true?

“Oh, it’s true,” Grandma said. “Your grandpa saw them once, long ago. And you know he never lies. Everyone in the village calls him ‘The Honest Old Man.’”

“When did he see them?” I asked.

“It was many years ago, sometime after the rainy season—probably around May. Your grandpa had stayed late working the lower fields. He was walking home through this very path when he heard it: the sound of stone scraping against stone.”

“He followed the noise, cautious but curious. The moon was nearly full, and you know your grandpa has eyes like a cat. When he got close enough, he saw them—dwarfs, climbing out of that rock entrance.”

“What did they look like?” I asked.

“They were small, about your height, but ancient-looking—wrinkled faces, deep eye bags beneath even deeper ones. They had long, silver beards that shimmered in the moonlight like polished metal. And strong! Strong enough to lift Canela, our donkey, with ease.”

“Really?!” I gasped.

“Your grandpa watched them closely. They seemed to be heading off on some scavenging mission. They carried pickaxes and a long wooden plank—probably off to collect copper and nickel from the nearby mountains.”

Once the dwarfs had left, Grandpa crept over to the stone entrance. He was surprised that the tunnel wasn’t dirt but stone—and not very deep. A wooden ladder led down into the darkness. Carefully, he descended.

The tunnel was long and wide, but not dark. Crystals embedded in the walls caught what little moonlight filtered in and glowed softly. Grandpa followed it for what felt like fifteen minutes.

At the end of the tunnel, he entered a vast underground world—a stone replica of our own village. There were homes, plazas, and larger stone buildings. Fires blazed in little pits throughout, warming the space despite it being so deep underground. Overhead was a black abyss, an endless ceiling of darkness.

The place smelled of sweet, rich soil. Grandpa could hear a faint river flowing in the distance.

“Were the dwarfs there?” my sister Esmeralda asked.

“They were everywhere,” Grandma replied. “Female dwarfs with copper hair, boys with jagged steel-like spikes, elders with silver hair just like the ones Grandpa first saw. Yet all of them, no matter their age, looked strong and capable.”

He stayed hidden, moving carefully behind buildings and stones. Through open windows, he peeked inside the homes—simple and cozy, with moss-covered stones for beds, slab tables, stump chairs, and plates of raw, gleaming metals. That’s what they ate, it seemed.

Grandpa made his way toward the center of the village, driven by pure curiosity. That’s when he saw it.

A mountain of treasure.

“Treasure?” Esmeralda and I echoed.

“Yes. Mayan treasure—gold coins, jade statues, goblets, rings, necklaces, and carvings of jaguars and birds.”

But mesmerized by the gold’s glint, Grandpa stepped out from hiding.

And that’s when it all went wrong.

“An intruder!” the dwarfs shouted. “A human!”

Panicked, Grandpa ran. The dwarfs gave chase, but his long legs gave him a head start. He sprinted back to the tunnel. But something was wrong—the stone entrance above had been sealed shut.

Still, he climbed the ladder in the darkness, heart pounding. Just as he reached the top, he hit his head on the stone lid.

Dizzy but determined, he pushed. The rock began to shift—light seeped in—but it wasn’t open enough.

That’s when he felt it.

A dwarf had caught up. It tugged at his pant leg, trying to pull him back down. In a final burst of strength, Grandpa kicked—hard. The dwarf flew backward, crashing into others behind it.

Using everything he had left, Grandpa pushed the stone further, squeezed through the gap, and scrambled out. Then, with one last push, he slid the rock back into place and rolled another boulder over it for good measure.

“Did they ever come out after him?” I asked.

“Not that we know of,” Grandma said. “They probably didn’t want to risk being seen. But I’ve always wondered—how many of them did it take to move both rocks back?”

Moral of the Story:

Curiosity can lead to discovery, but courage and quick thinking are what bring you home. Some secrets lie just beneath our feet, waiting to be found.