New Tales of the Gobi Desert
Island School, Thomas Yik, Fiction: Group 3
W
e are out of money.” My father said to us, sulking. The civil war had been going on
for days; each Mongolian tribe was fighting each other and thousands of lives were
lost. The golden Gobi had turned red. It had taken a toll on my family as well. My
father lost his job and mother was working for a penny a day. He gestured to my
mother to go into the bedroom to discuss. It felt like a year, until they finally opened the door. My
father looked depressed, so did my mother.
Father took a deep breath and said, “Son, we cannot afford a family of three, so me and mom
decided,” he seemed to be reluctant to say it and took another deep breath, “that you are going to
Peking and hopefully your uncle will adopt you and provide you a better life.”
Before I left, my father said to me, “When you have found it, remember to come back to the tribe.”
I was only four years old at that time. I did not understand. I just knew that I was never going
to see my family again. About the ‘it’ that my father required me to find, I did not have any idea
what he was talking about.
My first impression of Peking was it was one big city. Hundreds of people crowded on the
streets; each street was towered by two or three story buildings, and on the far end of the streets
was the Forbidden Palace. It looked like a giant, sleeping peacefully but also half-conscious,
making sure everything was going well in the city. With 20-metred walls and an area of more
than three acres of land, it was by far the biggest structure in the city. Peking was like a heaven
compared to my tribe’s small huts. I did not need to wander in the streets for more than a minute
when I saw my uncle. He was big, bulky, fluffy and most important of all, nice and cheery. He
immediately recognized me and gave me a rib-breaking hug. He showed me around the city,
listing all the different shops and grocers. They were all very interesting, but what interested me
the most was an old temple I passed through the desert on my way to Peking. It was black, and
ten stories high, projecting a mysterious aura. It looked a bit out of place as grass and vegetation
could be found in a three-metre radius around it.
I asked my uncle what was it and he said, “That my boy, is the Genbaku Temple. According to
the law, everyone is forbidden to enter it, not that anyone wants to. My boy, what lurks in there
is as terrifying for you to wish you fell to the lowest depths of hell than to see it. However, some
people do say that the lost jewel of Emperor Uhtan is in there, the last emperor of united Mongolia
until all fell to chaos, but I think that it’s all just a bunch of lies. Just to make that creepy place
seem like it has a purpose.”
I lived in Peking for 12 years. I worked for my uncle in his farm, raising cattle. It was tiring
work, trying to whip the sheep whilst riding a horse and cutting the wool of the sheep with an
iron sickle, but I grew up strong. My uncle gave me sword and bow lessons when we had finished
all the work. At first I was overwhelmed by the weight of the sword. I swung it clumsily, usually
smashing a few pieces of pottery around the house. Along with the smashed pieces of china, I
accidentally hit a sheep with my arrow, which resulted in a scolding from my uncle along with
some lamb stew for dinner. Uncle was a very forgiving man; one minute he was scowling and
scolding you, the next minute he was telling you about his childhood memories.
When I accidentally crashed into a wooden pole too hard in the farm shed, he would say, “You
“
