Village of Youth has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
I visited in 2005, hoping to find the fountain of youth. After two children, my body had turned brittle, my skin sagged, and my hair began to shed. No medicine or herbal remedy worked, and I had given up hope of ever feeling beautiful again — avoiding mirrors whenever I passed one.
But one day, my prayers were answered. Tucked inside a library book I had wrongfully borrowed (I assumed Secrets of Youth was a health guide) was a note about the Village of Youth. All the adults there reportedly looked no older than twenty, though the village, was said to be home to countless generations. The researcher who compiled the book — an ethnographic volume on cultural practices to preserve youth — mentioned that the village was hidden away in the distant state of Omelas.
I took a flight and asked around at the airport for directions. No one had any idea what I was talking about. Still, I trusted the hand-drawn map the researcher had included in the book and followed it religiously.
“Ma’am, this is a dead end,” the taxi driver whispered nervously as we entered a thick forest.
“I’m paying you — so shut up,” I snapped.
And I was right. What looked like a wall of vines turned out to be a curtain of green, hiding the entrance to the village. Handing over a small fortune, I dismissed the driver and stepped into the Village of Youth.
The villagers — all impossibly youthful — looked at me with confusion. Perhaps I was the first outsider to visit since the researcher in 1985.
“Teach me your ways,” I pleaded, offering them the encyclopedia that featured old photographs of their people.
They laughed, amused by the faded images of their relatives.
“Okay, we will help you,” one promised in thickly accented English.
The village was quite literally a fountain of youth. There were no dead trees; every leaf, flower, and branch seemed alive. The water was clear and sweet, the plant-based meals delicious and nourishing. Their hospitality overwhelmed me.
“You’ve come at the perfect time,” said the Village Chief, a handsome young man with flawless porcelain skin. It took all my self-restraint not to reach out and touch him.
“This will be me in a few days,” I thought, giddy with hope.
“The full moon is tonight,” he announced, flashing his pearly-white teeth. “We’ve already exhumed the bones of the dead and boiled them to make marrow soup. We’d love to have you at our Village Feast.”
I nodded eagerly and took a peaceful nap. Despite being deep in the forest, there were no bugs, no pests — only humans.
As drums announced the rising of the full moon, the village lit up. I already felt lighter, as though I were glowing. It was only a matter of time.
I slipped on my socks and hurried to the Village Circle, where long benches had been set for all 50 villagers.
The Village Chief stood in the center, his auburn hair catching the firelight. He began to pray:
“Let us honor the children lost,
Whose marrow feeds the flame,
Their gift, our youth, their names now ghosts —
We praise them all the same.”
“Pray, pray,” the villagers echoed.
I blinked. “Um… did you say children?”
The Chief replied nonchalantly, “Some of our children get lost in the forest. We find them too late. So, we use their bone marrow to stay young.”
I stared at him. “And this happens… every full moon?”
He smiled. “It’s just the way of things.”
I glanced at my untouched bowl. The woman beside me, eyeing it greedily, offered to trade. I handed it to her without hesitation while the Chief looked away.
“Thank you for this lovely meal,” I said, bowing politely. I planned to leave the next morning, with a villager offering to drive me to the nearest bus stop.
I walked quietly back toward my room in the Chief’s house. The kitchen — shown to me earlier — still smelled of boiled marrow. I could hear laughter and clinking bowls outside. Now was my chance to investigate the truth.
But I stumbled — falling hard on my knees, pain shooting up my brittle legs. I groaned, cursing my age. Eye-level with the cremation oven, I realized what I had tripped on:
A child’s shoe, charred at the sole.
I turned and saw dozens more — piled in a corner, partially hidden beneath a ceremonial cloth.
Gasping, I knelt slowly, hands trembling as I reached for one. It was so small — smaller than my daughter’s back home. Faded pink, fraying lace, and still caked with dried mud.
Then I saw the altar.
Rows of names were carved deep into the stone, far too many for a village of fifty.
Some were scratched out, replaced by newer ones.
Behind me, the fire crackled.
“You forgot your bowl,” the Village Chief grumbled, stepping into the doorway, eyes gleaming like a boy’s.
I looked down at my veined, withered hands — so unlike his smooth, plump fingers.
I thought of my husband, who only touched me out of obligation.
My children, who flinched from my hugs.
Then, I drank the soup.
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