The Beyond

Iona could hear the ringing boats, clamouring bells, the brassy trumpets, and the faint echo of joyous laughter and celebration in the distance. She was once in it. Now it was behind her. Iona was leaving.

Passing all the yellow-lit houses along the road, she did not steal any glances. She never once looked back. To look back was to witness the broad smiles on merry faces, bought by the perpetual misery of one. Iona had been told about it when she was eight, but only visited it today—well into her young adulthood. She was sickened; nauseous. Her eyes were filled with tears as she relived the nightmare.

Darkness. Coldness. Shivering. Limp skin hanging on frail bones. Naked. Broken. Sores— red, swollen sores. Puffy dull eyes from constant crying. Screaming. Pleading. Begging.

The horrifying sight of it came flooding back to Iona. She stopped. Took a breath. Wiped her eyes. She had reached the end of the street, the last house on her right. She saw an old lady at the door, dressed in a blinding white robe, probably on her way to the Festival. She stared at Iona, knowing. In the unspoken exchange between them, the shared knowledge of the child fills the space between them. The child: wasting away beneath their society—wasting away below for all the goodness and grace of the society celebrating above. The innocent, vulnerable, pleading sacrifice: upon which all the joy and abundance of Iona’s life had been built.

Stroking her pregnant stomach, Iona promised her unborn child true joy— not one dependent on another’s suffering. Instead, a joy for caring for those who suffer. She would find the others—the ones who silently left before her; the ones who would rather wither than relish in delight and decorum, knowing the true cost of it all.

What if there’s nothing? What if there’s just darkness, and endless wandering? she thought.

But Iona squashed those thoughts, holding onto the hope for an alternative, trusting that something better could be imagined.

“It is impossible to imagine our lives apart from its existence,” Joe tried to reason with her before she left. And yet there Iona was: at the end of the street, turning away from the old lady, Joe, her family, and all she had ever known.

She searched the nape of her neck for the golden pressed flower necklace Joe had gifted her with, at the news of her pregnancy.

“A symbol of the beauty that is to come,” he had said, putting it around Iona’s neck.

Finding it now, Iona clutched it, then ventured into the unknown. The undiscovered. The beyond. [becoming another one who walked away from Omelas]

She was one who walked away from Omelas.

. . .

With every footstep Maya takes, the earth beneath her crunches. The Forest’s floor is blanketed with dew-drenched leaves of every hue of golden green, twigs and sticks of every thickness and texture, solitary mushrooms of every quirky shape and height. Maya admires how the ground is like a rippled reflection on water. Just like the ripples that create mosaic shards of a once still and undisrupted portrait, the scattered colours, details and textures of the canvas below Maya’s feet give a glimpse—a fractured reflection—of the harmonious composition of all that is living above. She lifts her head to the sky: its blue veiled and light dappled, by the crowning trees. She is overcome with gratitude for such beauty. It emanates a sovereignty, glory and power greater than the Forest and Maya, herself.

“Every painting has a painter,” Maya’s mom would tell her whenever they would walk together through the Forest, “and the Forest’s is Elo—the Heartbeat, the Life Source, the Painter.” Never seen. Only sensed.

In Elo all things hold together, and all things come into being through Elo. It is the rich soil that feeds the Forest, and the seasonal rain that nourishes it. It is the caressing breeze, threatening clouds, roaring thunder, carefree birds, and soldiering ants. But most of all, Elo is light— the sun that powers the day, and the moon and stars that break the darkness at night.

Maya imagines how the morning sun must be peeking above the shielding and surrounding mountain ranges, Glor of the East and Azo of the West. She pictures its rays now stretching across the crystal lakes jewelling the landscape and spotlighting the contours of rolling green hills. She envisions streaks of light now spilling into the humble homes of the simple folk at the heart of this paradisal portrait, slowly waking Maya’s friends and family. Quaint cob homes of clay, straw and sand, are camouflaged by the palette of the surrounding natural environment, and adorned by handpicked bouquets, wood carvings and furniture, woven baskets, and organic paintings. Composting toilets. Community gardens. A home-schooling co-op. Daily walks in the Forest. A weekly farmers’ market of organic goods. There are no screens. No clocks. There is nothing obtrusive, flashy, artificial or pretentious. Even the people are meek and lowly.

“One body with many parts,” the well-known (and extensively repeated) saying among the community members goes, “each with a unique, indispensable role to play.”

Teachers. Engineers. Poets. Artists. Scientists. Farmers. All Stewards, using their gifts and talents to benefit each other. Generosity is their joy. Serving is their purpose. Contentment is their perpetual condition. Care is their motivation. Slow, simple and sustainable.

This is Olam.

And Maya is leaving.

She has to leave. Everything that Olam and the Stewards stand for—and on—is at stake. Olam exists on the basis of a sharing and serving that extend beyond just their community. The Stewards believe that they possess the answer to life’s meaning and the purpose of existence: Care. To care for one another, is to care for the Forest and preserve Elo.

When a Steward reaches a certain age—for some it’s seventeen, for others it’s seventy—where care is etched into their hearts, the principles of simplicity, slowness and sustainability are accepted and practiced, and their gifts and talents are harnessed and used for others, they usually develop a deep-rooted desire to share this joy and contentment with others whose lives are different. So, they leave. They don’t just leave once; they leave as often as they feel the need. But they always come back— sometimes bringing others with them, other times bringing wild and wonderful, hopeful and inspiring stories.

“How do you regreen a landscape?” Maya’s mom once asked her, inspecting an odd tiny yellow plant in the Olam Greenhouse. Being an environmental scientist, Maya’s mom spent every waking day researching ways to maximise care, extend the Forest and, therefore, strengthen the sensing of Elo.

“Not by bringing the desert to the Forest, but by bringing the Forest to the desert.”

Maya’s mom is her only family. Before Maya was born, her father left Olam and never came back. Indeed, to leave Olam is necessary—a responsibility, even; a natural response to the contentment and care cultivated in Olam.

“After a while, Stewards always return,” Maya’s teacher, Miss Kee, explained, “because their strength is Olam. It’s Elo.”

But never to come back? Well, that means one of two things: death or darkness. Maya hopes it was death that took her father, because the case for darkness seems worse. Darkness confuses and converts those whose hearts are not entirely convinced of Olam’s way of life, and whose sense of Elo is superficial. Darkness means giving in to the desert.

Deep breath in. Damp moss. Pine. Mud. Wafts of subtle, sweet floral. Then a garlicy, salty herbal scent. Breathe out. Crisp. Fresh. Focused.

Maya passes an old, fallen tree with plants and moss decorating an upside-down kingdom. From studying the maps with Miss Kee, she knows that she is close. Her pine-covered path will soon reach the end of the Forest.

This is her first-time leaving Olam. She decided ten days ago, on her sixteenth birthday, that she was ready; she was willing. She would leave. Her understanding of beyond the comfort, contentment and care of her community and the power, beauty and glory of Elo, up until this point has simply bee theoretical, learned. She learnt that beyond Olam—through the Forest and over the mountains—exists two starkly contrasting lands. On the other side of Azo, there’s Mor— a land of clocks and concrete. Its people, Morers, have heard of Olam but cannot fathom a reality other than their own. Mr Khadji, Maya’s neighbour, once described the land and people of Mor when he returned from his visit: “Everywhere you go, there are sharp corners and straight lines. It’s geometric and it’s grey. There are high-rise buildings right next to tiny tin roofs: the rich, and poor.

And time is their Elo, May…”

Of all concepts she had to learn, time took Maya the longest to grasp. In Olam, the only “time” is what the light determines. When the sun rises, the people awaken. When the sun gets hotter and higher in the sky, productivity and activity intensify. When the sun sets, the community grows quieter and calmer. When the moon and stars come out, resting and bonding ensue. There are no deadlines, time constraints or rush. A task, relationship, artwork, innovation, building or decision is ready when the time that is needed for wisdom and excellence is sufficiently spent.

“…Instead of sharing, they determine the worth of something according to clocks. It’s all just one big rat race. The more efficient something is, the more value it has. The faster you are, the richer you become. The slowest are the poorest. The point of their lives is to be the fastest. But there’s only ever space for one…”

In Olam, though, there is no hierarchy. If, indeed, the Stewards form one body, then the arm is no more important than the foot, which is no more valuable than the nose, and so on.

“…You’re lucky if you find a weed creeping through the pavements,” Mr Khadji continued to baffle Maya’s mind, “You see, May, to grow a garden takes time and patience. Two things worth nothing to the Morers. Now try explaining the Forest, Olam and Elo to them.”

Mr Khadji smiled when saying this, as if the challenge of Mor excited him.

The challenge of Mor is something Maya wouldn’t face, just quite yet. She is headed someplace else. Over Glor is a land of excess and ignorance. Few Stewards have ventured here, for the fact that there are tempting similarities. Like Olam, there are lush landscapes, harmony, communal living, joyous celebrations, and beauty. Like the Stewards, they gather together without slavery, hierarchy or monarchy.

“The fundamental difference, you must remember,” her mom’s serious face and stern voice scared Maya. Her mom spoke with a desperation Maya had never before sensed in her.

“They do not leave. Their joy is unchallenged. Their happiness, fake.”

This is Omelas.

And Maya is going.

There was something deeply personal about her mom’s words, something sombre about her tone, that Maya ponders even now as she reaches the final stretch of the Forest.

“Take the Forest to them,” she whispered in Maya’s ear, as she hugged her goodbye.

Before Maya left home, her mom unclasped the golden necklace she wore, and placed it in Maya’s palm.

But what Maya didn’t tell her mom, Miss Kee, Mr Khadji, or any of the other Stewards for that matter, is that her decision to leave is about more than the wellbeing of Olam, the harmony of the Forest, and the strengthening of Elo. Greater than Maya’s care and contentment guiding her through the Forest, past the rolling green hills, over Glor, and into Omelas, is her curiosity. Was it death or darkness in Omelas that took her father away from her? If it was darkness, what could possibly be so much better about Omelas than Olam?

With her footstep’s last crunch, Maya steps into the great beyond. With a surge of uncertainty intermingled with conviction overwhelming her, Maya turns around to soak up the last glimpse of the Forest’s splendour, and softly sings praise to Elo.

She clutches the gold necklace hanging loosely around her neck. She gains comfort and courage from it, imagining her mom, gran and great-gran having done the same throughout their lives.

Deep breath in. “They turn a blind eye. But we don’t.”

Breathe out. Maya takes her first step towards taking the Forest to Omelas—her first step towards fully realizing all that Olam is, and all that it is not.