Shantytown: Omelas 1/1
Omelas (A Shantytown Tale) (1/1).
This story was prompted by two things: someone’s question as to what the Muses would think of Shantytown, and a short story by Ursula Le Guin called “Those Who Walk Away From Omelas”. It’s a brilliant story, and I heartily recommend it: you can find it in the collection “The Wind’s Twelve Quarters.” I’ve paraphrased it in the below fic.
Disclaimer: Subreality is a concept devised by Kielle, Shantytown was envisaged by Dea X. Machina (aka Seraph). The Collegium and Ambrosia were created by Farli, and Firkin and his Mentor are mine.
Rating: G, for general reading.
Two figures, one young, one older, walk the dark and frosty winter backstreets of Subreality. Both are well wrapped against the cold, making it difficult to tell much about them. But the fact they are able to walk these streets unmolested by the usual gaggle of sneakthieves, cutthroats, assassins and body snatchers is a sign of their relative importance in the overall scheme of things.
“Mentor, may I ask where we are going?” It is the young one, his voice high and nervous, his manner that of one eager to please.
“Somewhere all those who aspire to be Muses should go,” replies the elder, long used to his anxious student’s questions.
“But Mentor,” protests the student Muse, “Ambrosia has already shown us all of Subreality, and it’s cold and it’s getting late and I really don’t think it’s safe…”
“Hold that prattling tongue of yours, Firkin, before you draw the wrong kind of attention to us,” says the elder Muse, his tone gentler than his words, but the command ringing clear. “I am your Mentor, am I not?”
“Yes, Mentor,” Firkin says meekly.
“And as your Mentor you trust me, implicitly and utterly?”
“Of course I do, Mentor.”
“Then shut up and come along. It’s not far to go.”
Firkin closes his mouth, ever obedient, and trots after his Mentor like a chastised puppy. As they walk on in silence, he begins to take note of their surroundings.
This is no part of Subreality he has ever seen, he realises. It is so drab, so dirty and dingy, it almost seems impossible that it is part of that realm of creativity he has explored with his fellow students. Shapes flit here and there among the ruined streets like departed spirits. Others turn dead eyes on them, their expression flat with hate and hunger. These are fictives, but with an air of hopelessness and despair not even shared by Laersyn’s creations. Firkin shivers and draws closer to his Mentor, questions rising to his lips, but halted by the earlier admonishment.
“Tell me, Firkin, do you know the story of Omelas?” his Mentor asks presently.
“No, Mentor.”
“Omelas was the perfect city, a kind of Utopia, if you will. No sickness, no poverty, no violence. A city of true Joy.”
“A truly wondrous place, Mentor.”
“Indeed, Firkin, but one founded on a dark and terrible bargain.”
“How is that, Mentor?”
“In exchange for the happiness and well being of the many, one individual, a child, must live in the most abject neglect and poverty, kept locked in a basement, ill-treated and alone.”
“But this is a terrible thing, Mentor! How could this be allowed?”
“Because one kind word, one gesture of kindness, one act of compassion to the child, and the city would crumble and fall.”
“Did the people who lived in the city know of this bargain, Mentor?”
“Yes, Firkin, they did, and they accepted it. Every citizen, when they reached an age of understanding, was told about the child. Some even went to see it. And for the most part, they accepted the conditions of the bargain, understanding that for the majority to achieve happiness, it was necessary to sacrifice the happiness of one child.”
Firkin is silent for a long time, mulling over his Mentor’s tale. He looks around him, knowing this strange, sad place is connected somehow. His gaze falls on a small pinched face, peering at him from behind an untidy pile of crates and boxes and garbage. A child’s face, eyes huge and the lips blue with cold. Moved by something he doesn’t quite understand, Firkin unwraps the long woollen scarf from around his neck and peels off his gloves. He approaches the child’s hiding place, and hears a sharp hiss of breath as the child withdraws deeper into the shadows, out of reach.
“Here,” Firkin says, laying the gloves and scarf on top of a crate. In the drabness, their colours glow like jewels. “For you. With my blessing.”
There is no movement, no hoarse and teary thank you, no poignant moment, and Firkin sighs and turns back to his Mentor who is standing quietly and studying his student with those deep and unfathomable eyes.
“Mentor, what is this awful place?” Firkin asks at last.
“It is known as Shantytown. It is the place for the forgotten fictives, for the unpopular and the lost, for the mad, bad and unknown.” The senior Muses chuckles sadly to himself at his small joke. “It is the basement of our own Omelas.”
When Firkin makes no reply, his Mentor looks at him questioningly, eyebrow arched.
“I think… I understand, Mentor,” Firkin says quietly, and when he meets his teacher’s gaze, there is a new depth, and new sadness in his eyes.
“That’s good, Firkin. That’s very good. Come, let’s go back to the Collegium. The cold is making these old bones of mine ache.”
“But Mentor, these fictives… Is there nothing we can do for them?”
“For these unfortunates? No, not really. We are not Writers, we don’t have that kind of power.”
“Then why bring me here?”
“I brought you here so you could know the consequences of your actions, the price of the creativity we inspire as Muses. These fictives are those whose tales were lost, whose existence has been forgotten by their Writers and the Readers alike. Know and learn from this: Shantytown is the other side of the coin, the result of stories that do not stick in the imagination, characters who do not generate sympathy or empathy, inspiration unwisely given. Inspire you Writer, should you be given one, encourage him or her to craft the stories well, so they will not be forgotten. Remember this place, Firkin, remember it well!”
The Mentor’s voice is fervent, his eyes blazing with the intensity of his feelings. Solemnly, Firkin nods, and is rewarded with a clap on the shoulder that almost knocks him over. “Good lad! I knew there was something under all that wishy-washy Romanticism.” He turns to go, but Firkin has one last question:
“Do all student Muses see this place?”
“Unfortunately, no. This little field trip is something I do alone, and only with those students I feel will benefit from the lesson. The other Mentors and Muses prefer not to think much on this place. We all have a reason to feel guilty here.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Let’s go back, eh? I feel the need for a fire and some mulled wine.” He strides off into the dark, cloak flapping. Firkin hesitates for a moment longer, and looks back at the pile of junk.
And smiles. The scarf and gloves are gone.
This story was prompted by two things: someone’s question as to what the Muses would think of Shantytown, and a short story by Ursula Le Guin called “Those Who Walk Away From Omelas”. It’s a brilliant story, and I heartily recommend it: you can find it in the collection “The Wind’s Twelve Quarters.” I’ve paraphrased it in the below fic.
Disclaimer: Subreality is a concept devised by Kielle, Shantytown was envisaged by Dea X. Machina (aka Seraph). The Collegium and Ambrosia were created by Farli, and Firkin and his Mentor are mine.
Rating: G, for general reading.
Two figures, one young, one older, walk the dark and frosty winter backstreets of Subreality. Both are well wrapped against the cold, making it difficult to tell much about them. But the fact they are able to walk these streets unmolested by the usual gaggle of sneakthieves, cutthroats, assassins and body snatchers is a sign of their relative importance in the overall scheme of things.
“Mentor, may I ask where we are going?” It is the young one, his voice high and nervous, his manner that of one eager to please.
“Somewhere all those who aspire to be Muses should go,” replies the elder, long used to his anxious student’s questions.
“But Mentor,” protests the student Muse, “Ambrosia has already shown us all of Subreality, and it’s cold and it’s getting late and I really don’t think it’s safe…”
“Hold that prattling tongue of yours, Firkin, before you draw the wrong kind of attention to us,” says the elder Muse, his tone gentler than his words, but the command ringing clear. “I am your Mentor, am I not?”
“Yes, Mentor,” Firkin says meekly.
“And as your Mentor you trust me, implicitly and utterly?”
“Of course I do, Mentor.”
“Then shut up and come along. It’s not far to go.”
Firkin closes his mouth, ever obedient, and trots after his Mentor like a chastised puppy. As they walk on in silence, he begins to take note of their surroundings.
This is no part of Subreality he has ever seen, he realises. It is so drab, so dirty and dingy, it almost seems impossible that it is part of that realm of creativity he has explored with his fellow students. Shapes flit here and there among the ruined streets like departed spirits. Others turn dead eyes on them, their expression flat with hate and hunger. These are fictives, but with an air of hopelessness and despair not even shared by Laersyn’s creations. Firkin shivers and draws closer to his Mentor, questions rising to his lips, but halted by the earlier admonishment.
“Tell me, Firkin, do you know the story of Omelas?” his Mentor asks presently.
“No, Mentor.”
“Omelas was the perfect city, a kind of Utopia, if you will. No sickness, no poverty, no violence. A city of true Joy.”
“A truly wondrous place, Mentor.”
“Indeed, Firkin, but one founded on a dark and terrible bargain.”
“How is that, Mentor?”
“In exchange for the happiness and well being of the many, one individual, a child, must live in the most abject neglect and poverty, kept locked in a basement, ill-treated and alone.”
“But this is a terrible thing, Mentor! How could this be allowed?”
“Because one kind word, one gesture of kindness, one act of compassion to the child, and the city would crumble and fall.”
“Did the people who lived in the city know of this bargain, Mentor?”
“Yes, Firkin, they did, and they accepted it. Every citizen, when they reached an age of understanding, was told about the child. Some even went to see it. And for the most part, they accepted the conditions of the bargain, understanding that for the majority to achieve happiness, it was necessary to sacrifice the happiness of one child.”
Firkin is silent for a long time, mulling over his Mentor’s tale. He looks around him, knowing this strange, sad place is connected somehow. His gaze falls on a small pinched face, peering at him from behind an untidy pile of crates and boxes and garbage. A child’s face, eyes huge and the lips blue with cold. Moved by something he doesn’t quite understand, Firkin unwraps the long woollen scarf from around his neck and peels off his gloves. He approaches the child’s hiding place, and hears a sharp hiss of breath as the child withdraws deeper into the shadows, out of reach.
“Here,” Firkin says, laying the gloves and scarf on top of a crate. In the drabness, their colours glow like jewels. “For you. With my blessing.”
There is no movement, no hoarse and teary thank you, no poignant moment, and Firkin sighs and turns back to his Mentor who is standing quietly and studying his student with those deep and unfathomable eyes.
“Mentor, what is this awful place?” Firkin asks at last.
“It is known as Shantytown. It is the place for the forgotten fictives, for the unpopular and the lost, for the mad, bad and unknown.” The senior Muses chuckles sadly to himself at his small joke. “It is the basement of our own Omelas.”
When Firkin makes no reply, his Mentor looks at him questioningly, eyebrow arched.
“I think… I understand, Mentor,” Firkin says quietly, and when he meets his teacher’s gaze, there is a new depth, and new sadness in his eyes.
“That’s good, Firkin. That’s very good. Come, let’s go back to the Collegium. The cold is making these old bones of mine ache.”
“But Mentor, these fictives… Is there nothing we can do for them?”
“For these unfortunates? No, not really. We are not Writers, we don’t have that kind of power.”
“Then why bring me here?”
“I brought you here so you could know the consequences of your actions, the price of the creativity we inspire as Muses. These fictives are those whose tales were lost, whose existence has been forgotten by their Writers and the Readers alike. Know and learn from this: Shantytown is the other side of the coin, the result of stories that do not stick in the imagination, characters who do not generate sympathy or empathy, inspiration unwisely given. Inspire you Writer, should you be given one, encourage him or her to craft the stories well, so they will not be forgotten. Remember this place, Firkin, remember it well!”
The Mentor’s voice is fervent, his eyes blazing with the intensity of his feelings. Solemnly, Firkin nods, and is rewarded with a clap on the shoulder that almost knocks him over. “Good lad! I knew there was something under all that wishy-washy Romanticism.” He turns to go, but Firkin has one last question:
“Do all student Muses see this place?”
“Unfortunately, no. This little field trip is something I do alone, and only with those students I feel will benefit from the lesson. The other Mentors and Muses prefer not to think much on this place. We all have a reason to feel guilty here.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Let’s go back, eh? I feel the need for a fire and some mulled wine.” He strides off into the dark, cloak flapping. Firkin hesitates for a moment longer, and looks back at the pile of junk.
And smiles. The scarf and gloves are gone.