A Desert’s Story
Kellett School, Anahita Kaman, Fiction: Group 3
M
y eyes fluttered open to morning sunshine flooding into my room, bathing my
bed and a rotting wooden chest of drawers in a soft orange glow. I sighed. These
sunrises were hard to find in my part of the world - a region between China and
Mongolia. My land was filled to the brim with lush vegetation. Finding work was
easy. Even the laziest could find it. But things were entirely different for me. My father died
before I was born, leaving my mother with all responsibilities of raising a child. Unfortunately,
she started to go mad under the stress and left, orphaning me at age seven. Ever since then I have
been striving for myself, finding my own means of survival.
My monkey, Ababu, sat next to me. I stood up to get ready for work. I was a sweeper, you see.
Dressed in an old, tattered work dress that was once my Mother’s, I grabbed my broom, opened
the door and left my house, with Ababu bounding off into the forest.
Two hours later, I plopped down onto the ground, sighing heavily, head between knees.
Normally I would have at least five customers by noon, but not today. Suddenly, loud voices
ricocheted off the village walls. Not wanting to seem weak and vulnerable, I immediately lifted
my head up again, seeing a group of school children.
“I see no one needs you, probably because you’re a so useless!” the tallest one shouted. Ouch.
Despite my desperate attempts, I couldn’t stop the first tear from running down my cheek. After
one there came a whole army.
“Ha, Gori’s crying! Miss your Mother? Oh wait she abandoned you!” I couldn’t take it anymore.
I ran off to a secluded part of the village, a cacophony of laughter echoing behind me. I slid down,
curled up, and cried.
A booming voice ran through the village. The voice sounded angry and wounded, a feeling to
which I could easily relate. Sniffing and wiping my tears, I got to my feet and looked for the source.
I went into the village square; right in the middle, there was a huge crowd. In the square,
work was easy to find. Unlike most in need of work, I did not search for business here - there were
too many eager workers. Through the market stalls, I approached the heart of the commotion. I
darted through the crowd, emerging from the sea of people to find an old robe clad woman with a
purple turban, screaming obscenities at the villagers, mainly at the same group of school children
who had insulted me earlier. I snorted in disgust. They were cowering behind a stall trembling. I
smirked with glee. I couldn’t see the woman’s face until she turned around to face the rest of us.
She looked… familiar. Instantly, a river of memories came flooding back.
I was only five when I encountered this peculiar old woman, when I still had my Mother. The
old woman was a soothsayer and many believed that her visions were real, my Mother among
them. Her name was Odval. I vaguely remembered her face, wrinkled like parchment and piercing
blue eyes that could burn holes. That’s what made her so terrifying. Odval was famous in the
region. But slowly, over the years, her fame was lost, many believing her tales were just lies, tricks
to earn money. People badmouthed her behind her back. Despite her wide infamy, she never knew
or faced any of these insults. Until now.
I, like many others, assumed she would just give the abusive children a small caning and
be done with it, but those words must have left a tear in her self-belief as the next few minutes
