[ EU ] The Ones Who Invade Omelas

Beyond the mountains of Omelas, nestled in a rook or a cranny, on the edge of a field that grows but does not grow well, is an old man. 
 
 There has always been an old man there, and there always will be. He has no father, and he has no sons, but he is as real as any of the Lost Ones who wander through the hills, as real as the wretched Lamb of Omelas, bound for slaughter but never slaughtered. 
 
 It it him who greets the refugees from Paradise, who offers meals, as meager 
 and bland as they go. He does not offer much, provisions or answers both. 
 He merely watches the horizon from dawn till dusk, then he retires until the sun returns, and he greets it upon his rocking chair as he has always done. 
 
 His steady rhythm and even breaths do not inspire comfort, not does his 
 protesting rocking chair take the edge off the wayfarers. They find their skin itching, their teeth grinding, and inevitably, they wander on forth. 
 
 Until a young girl, who has one eye green and one eye blue, meets the old man. 
 She tells him that it is her brother perhaps, who is trapped in that awful room. She does not know who he is, but she knows that he is family. She still remembers his eyes, as odd as her own, recoiling from beautiful sunlight, and his hunched posture, moving on his knuckles like a primitive ape. 
 
 She questions her parents, and they dismiss her with a wave of their hand, they come up with excuses, so many excuses, but that boy in the closet 
 haunts her daylight hours, even though she falls asleep to the most wonderful dreams. He might even be a long-distant cousin, for he has eyes like her, and in another life, it might be her, squatting like an animal with a queer-eyed relative observing her suffering. 
 
 There are many who walk away from Omelas, but only one decides to go back. 
 
 She does not find the old man's silence tiresome, she does not mind the groaning 
 of his chair, nor the heaviness of his snoring. She observes his routine like clockwork, and when another countrywoman passes through, the young girl reaches out her arms and breaks the cycle. 
 
 The young girl eats her bland dinner without complaint, and encourages everyone to stay right where they are. 
 
 Numbers grow slowly, but surely, as the young girl stops any who try to walk further, then the final mountain pass. Even though, once upon a time, all who left Omelas knew where they were going, the odd-eyed girl never did. She offers them a choice, to keep on walking or to stay. 
 
 `` We will return to Omelas,'' she tells each one. `` But we wo n't allow suffering as our families do.'' 
 
 Their determination is replaced by uncertainty, they walk around the old man and his cottage as lost sheep. But the girl is their shepherd, and she guides them back home. 
 
 The city is still as beautiful as it has always been, the summer is not overly hot, and the breeze arrives whenever one finds themselves wishing for it. The wayfarers return from the darkness, from their bland meals and weary bones, but they are smiling, and they are not wanting for Omelas' luxuries. 
 
 They are met with curiosity, with wonder, as many have no reason to leave, so they have never seen beyond their own city. Mothers welcome sons, and fathers welcome daughters, and a celebration is held to welcome the Lost Ones who are no longer lost. 
 
 The food is, as always, delightful, and the music is, as always, haunting. The wayfarers pass their plates around, not consuming despite how desperately their mouths water, or how tempting it all smells. The food vanishes nonetheless, into a little sack, held by the young girl under the tables. 
 
 A lady turns around to find her soap has vanished from the side of her bath, a washcloth, clean clothes, a comforting blanket. All find their way into the little sack. 
 
 At long last, the young girl braces herself in front of the door, and opens it. 
 
 Inside, is perhaps her brother or cousin, or maybe someone completely unrelated, that by pure chance or a genetic quirk or predetermination shares the same mismatched eyes that she does. He backs away from her, further into his den of excrement and misery. 
 
 The girl gags, but reaches forth nonetheless, grasping the boy's hands and yanking him, by force, into the world. 
 
 The festivities carry on, some distance away, as her band of merry thieves sneak away, one by one. 
 
 It may be as the Elders say, that Omelas will fall within the hour. 
 
 But the odd-eyed girl also remembered the justification of the little boy sniveling in the dark. She sees him now with his rags replaced with silk, his feet adorned with slippers, with as many desserts and pastries he can cram into his mouth, and remembers the platitudes that he was -- 
 
 `` -- too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy.'' 
 
 True, he can not speak, but his expression could be described as sheer, and profound, delight. 
 
 `` -- too uncouth for it to respond to any humane treatment.'' 
 
 He can not say thank you, but he can hug, as fiercely as a wretched child has ever hugged his saviors.
