Little Girl “Lost”: An Irish Fable

Nov 26, 2023 9:50 am | Virtual Jerusalem

by Roov Koret

Once upon a time, there lived a cheerful child named Emily, a sprite hailing from the Emerald Isle with a presence as warming as peat fires in winter. The young lass lived in a foreign scape, where horizons stretched wide and flowers whispered not of druids but distant, dryer spirits.

On a joyous holiday, celebrating tradition, Emily was gifted to attend a slumber party, a childhood rite, with laughter and the hushed exchange of dreams as currency. Here, children draped in the innocence of sleepwear gathered, a tableau of the carefree days we all once knew.

But as dawn unfurled its light, the scene suddenly twisted, and the players transmogrified. Into the sleep of innocence, malevolence crept on silent feet. Leprechauns, spirits of old lore, emerged not with mischief, but with implements of destruction gripped in their vengeful hands.

Knives gleamed cold and sharp, Kalashnikovs rattled with the promise of thunder, RPGs loomed like the sickles of the Grim Reaper, and garden hoes, perverted from their nurturing purpose, became instruments of beheading.

The children, nestled in dreams of tomorrow, were seized in a neverending nightmare, looping in the minds of a nation and good folk everywhere. The leprechauns, with a ferocity that defied their fabled origins, unleashed horror upon those too young to understand such ancient hatred.

Emily, in her nightgown, clutching a teddy bear, in stark contrast to the weapons brandished with intent, was torn from the world she knew. The leprechauns, with warlike arsenals, ripped asunder the veil between myth and reality, revealing the evil heart of darkness beating beneath.

Word of atrocities spread, a shadow passing over the hearts of all who heard. Yet, as days turned to weeks, the tale reached the marbled halls of power, and the narrative morphed. The Prime Minister, tweeting like an old crow, spoke of a child ‘lost’ as though she had simply strayed from the path on a woodland walk, rather than being wrenched from the bosom of safety.

His words painted not the portrait of terror that had visited the children, but a sanitized version, a tale to comfort and conceal rather than confront. Instead of rejoicing in Emily’s return, he fed a tale that ignored the leprechauns’ intent, the bloodlust that had shattered the morning’s peace, and the responsibility that the nation of Ireland, awash itself in bloodthirsty leprechauns, avoids.

The lesson of our fable relates to those jaded elites who watch from towers of ivory and gold, who spin tales to shield eyes from the vile truths of their reprehensible choices. The leprechauns, armed as terrorists of the night, are rendered as shadows in the cynical cyan of political palaver.

The moral at the heart of our satire is stark: the greatest evil may not always be the monsters at our doors, but the voices that refuse to call them by their name, who offer prayerful platitudes instead of hard truths, who, in the face of pure evil’s assault on innocence, choose to look away and, in doing so, allow the darkness to fester and spread its reach into the world of children.

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