The boy finished playing his hand-carved flute, slipped it into his satchel and slid off his perch. His eyes narrowed as they followed the passing crowd of men and women, an orgy of ignorant euphoria, heading for the Green Fields that overlooked the bay. The Festival of Summer had begun and Omelas had been overcome by a citywide knee-jerk urge to drink, eat, dance and ignore all responsibility. He turned and pattered away down a long side alley, stopping short of the other end. Glancing out into the sandy side street, he could see the backend of a large wooden wagon several dozen feet away. It belonged to an old woman, a travelling merchant popular with the people of Omelas. Here, beyond the Eighteen Peaks, merchandise and produce was often transported from place to place by traders. Excited chatter floated out from behind the wagon, against a fading backdrop of trumpets and drums. A young woman passed by his corner, probably heading for the festivities, hands waving in the air as she twirled and swayed, blissfully intoxicated and oblivious. She, like many other adults was high on drooz, a drug as commonly and openly consumed as beer. The rest of the street was empty. He took a deep breath, slipped out into the street and crept to the wagon’s rear. It was uncovered, revealing stacked crates and barrels. An ajar crate of furs offered a cramped yet cosy hiding space – perfect for a small stowaway. Peering over a low barrel, the boy could see the old woman collecting coins from several men, who excitedly accepted a small leather pouch in return. They fidgeted and trembled as they hurriedly gathered up baskets of assorted fruits, breads, and caskets of wine. Apparently having concluded business for the day, the old woman turned attention to disassembling her pop-up stall – an opportunity for the boy to climb into his hideout, buried beneath the contents. It was warm and a little cramped, but he could breathe comfortably through a crack in the crate. He doubted anyone would notice that he was missing, for a few days at least, and when they did, would care little. Now he just had to wait until they had reached the next town and he could make his own way from there, to get as far from Omelas as he could. As he lay there, he could hear the old woman panting, crates being shuffled and horses whinnying. Soon, the wagon jerked forwards and began to trundle along, picking up pace as the ground become more level. The boy could make out a sliver of lampposts suffocated by white and green streamers, and buildings besieged by bright festival flags and banners. They passed through the sandstone archway, its steel gates agape, signifying the edge Omelas and the boy noiselessly sighed, anxious but relieved.

They passed by fields of wheat, where stacks of sheaves shimmered like gold in the midday sun. He knew the edge of Redlaw Woods would be upon them soon, marking the end of Omelas’ territory, but as he wondered what would be beyond, the wagon slowed and creaked to a halt. He heard the canvas covering the back of the wagon being hoisted up and then, in a heavy but reasonably understandable accent:

“Come on out, lad. We’re outside the town now. No-one to see you leavin’ and ridin’ up front with me will be much comfier than that crate.”

The boy flinched in surprise, but accepting he had been found out, warily made his way out. The old woman gave him a crooked grin that caused the wrinkles on her forehead and around her eyes to shift. He had seen her in the city many times, but never up close. She had always seemed friendly and lively, but her dark eyes now appeared to expose sorrow and exhaustion. She passed him a water flask and a chunk of bread from the back. Tearing off half the bread and stowing it in his satchel for later, he followed her back around to the front and hopped up beside her. A snap of the reins and they were off again, the woodland beckoning with outstretched arms. For a few hours they travelled along winding paths, veering one way or another at forks without hesitation; the old woman clearly knew her way through these woods. Until now, she had said nothing more and the boy, not one to say much, had quietly taken in the surrounding forest. He had never seen so many differently shaped and coloured trees, nor heard such a wonderful chorus of songbirds. It was satisfyingly peaceful here, so far removed from the hubbub of Omelas, yet something felt amiss: every so often, birds would fall silent, squirrels and foxes would dart away into the undergrowth, and the trees seemed to bend away from the passing wagon, as if terrified. Eventually, they reached a stream and stopped, to let the horses drink.

“Where’s it you’re headin’ then, lad?” asked the old woman, as she filled a couple of flasks with fresh water.

“Don’t know. Anywhere, I suppose,” he replied.

“Anywhere that ain’t Omelas?”

The boy nodded, but he had lied: he knew exactly where he was headed and he would find another trader to hitch a ride with at the next town.

“And why would a young lad be sneakin’ out of happy little place like Omelas?” she asked, with a wry smile.

He had an odd feeling that she already knew the answer. He had seen the child in the cellar, of a house in the middle of the city. But it wasn’t a normal child, unrecognisable with its dirty face, long hair, big belly and stick-like limbs. He couldn’t understand why it was there and was told only that it had to be there and not to question it. He tried to ignore it, but after a few weeks, after watching other children running and playing happily in the streets and fields, he knew had to leave, to find somewhere that didn’t treat anybody like that. It just wasn’t right.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“How did you know I was hiding in the wagon?” he asked her.

The old woman stared at the wagon for a few moments. “Gotta have eyes in the back of my head. Can never trust a fox ‘round the sheep,” she said, gesturing to her cargo.

“You think I’m a fox?”

“Nay, you’re but a lamb. And you need to be watchin’ for the foxes too, if travellin’ alone’s your style.”

The boy looked around at the trees. Surely foxes wouldn’t try to take him. Or did she mean something else? He had heard of monsters living in the woods, but they were just fairy-tales for scaring young children. She probably meant humans, but he had yet to see any outside of Omelas on their journey. Still, he was beginning to feel a little less courageous.

“Best be gettin’ on then. We ain’t far from Damolas and there’s still time for makin’ coin.”

Before long, the trees opened out into a grassy hillside, with the edge of a walled town visible below. Damolas soon came into view, half engulfed in shadow as the afternoon sun began to descend. They headed down the slope and into the town, passing through heavy wooden gates. The boy gazed around in wonder. Omelas was an unblemished array of sandstone and light brick architecture, its streets tidy and clustered neatly around the harbour. Damolas, by contrast, was a dull blend of narrow stone streets that intersected tall buildings of steel and wood.

They stopped in a bustling, open marketplace, where the old woman set up her stall at the back of the wagon.

“I guess you’ll be findin’ your way from here then, lad. Good luck.”

“Thanks for the ride,” nodded the boy and headed off into the crowd. He’d have to stay here a few days and try to earn some coin. Then he would buy passage to the next coastal town and sail from there. As he wandered through the marketplace, he noticed that many people were dancing and bobbing about, a peculiar and familiar look of idle ecstasy upon their faces. The boy found a comfortable spot at the edge of the market to sit and play his flute, hoping people would drop him coins as they did in Omelas. He watched as people passed him by, ignoring him as they went about their business.

The evening shadow was creeping closer and as the merchants began to close up, the boy wondered where he’d sleep tonight. He was used to sleeping rough in Omelas, but this was an entirely different place. Then, through the thinning crowd, he saw the old woman. She was still here, just about packed up. Making his mind up, he approached her.

“Hello. I was wondering if I might be able to stay with you a little longer. Perhaps just until the next town.”

She flashed another crooked smile, her dark eyes a little heavier, her wrinkles a little more prominent. “Ah lad, I thought I might see you again. I never say no to good company. On you hop.”

He climbed onto the wagon once more and soon they were off again, heading back through the gates.

“Are we going through the forest? It’s getting dark very quickly,” he said.

“Nay, lad. My home is around the other side of the city. We’ll stay there tonight,” she replied.

They trundled along a dirt path around the outside of the city walls and headed toward the woods, through fields of corn and potatoes, until they arrived at an aging windmill. It was surrounded by solid stone walls, with steel spikes running across the top. Protection from whatever lives in the woods, the boy supposed. He followed the old woman inside and she made for the fireplace. Within seconds it was ablaze, and the light revealed a cosy room with a bed, a couch and other furniture. An unusual mixture of trinkets, bags and instruments was displayed on shelves around the room. The old woman shuffled over, bringing him a plate with some pastries on it.

“Eat up, lad. You must be a bit peckish,” she said.

He didn’t need to be told twice and began to stuff his mouth full.

The boy sat up, dizzy and confused. The last he remembered, he had sat down and shut his eyes. He was no longer on the couch, but on cold, wet floor. As his eyes focused, he realised he was in a small cell with three stone walls and steel bars, illuminated by a ray of moonlight coming from somewhere above. All he could hear was the steady drip of water and occasional soft whimpers from somewhere outside the bars. A glow of light appeared and as the boy shrank back to the corner terrified, he watched as the old woman shuffled into view carrying a lamp.

“Naughty laddies, runnin’ away from home. Tut-tut.”

She turned to the boy and as she lowered the lamp, he watched as shadows began to reshape her face. Her wrinkles smoothed into chalky, whitish-green skin. Her grey hair lengthened, becoming thin and black. Her heavy eyes turned black, the skin around them a pale red, while gnarled yellow teeth filled her evil grin.

Horrified, the boy began to cry. The old woman was a night hag, a devourer of children. A story told to scare children. He never believed such a nightmarish tale could be real.

She cackled wildly as she watched him, “Don’t be upset, lad. You’ll make for a fine supply of my famous drooz when your juicy bones are a little older. Until then, we’ll find you a nice quiet cellar somewhere. Like Omelas.”

As the boy sobbed, the hag withdrew a hand-carved flute from her pocket and began to play.