New Tales of the Gobi Desert
CIS, Kerry Hsu, Fiction: Group 3
T
he scorching sun blazed down onto the barren sand of the Gobi Desert. I looked over
at the clock to see that it wasn’t even 7 o’clock but the heat seemed powerful enough
to burn a hole through my clothes My mom had been an absolute pain, nagging us
to “enjoy this experience” because it would “teach us about different cultures”. Lisa,
my sister, was being so irritating with her annoying smile and fake look of understanding. She
nodded her head to my mother’s lecturing pretending to be the angel that she isn’t. I had stomped
off in frustration with my journal in hand, wandering not far from the yurt, but far enough.
I sat on the dry, grainy sand sulking. I knew I was being unreasonable but I just needed some
time alone. I stared out at the vast landscape when suddenly a hand was clamped over my mouth
and a brown sack was thrust over my head. I felt strong, dangerous hands lift me up, and as much
as I kicked and screamed, it seemed to have no effect on him at all.
He had tied me to the back of one of those Mongolian horses. I had gone riding with my
father before at home, but this was completely different. My feet were tied to the stirrups and the
stride of these horses felt different. I had long since stopped sobbing and my throat was no longer
blocked up, but tears continued to stream down my face. It took all that I had not to break down
completely. I needed to be strong if I wanted to survive this.
Hours went by and the horse hadn’t stopped once, he didn’t seem to be on the horse with me
so I assumed that he was on another leading the one that I was on. I held my journal and pen in
comfort, the tears had dried on my face, leaving small stains on my cheeks. I wondered whether
my family had realized I was gone yet. Probably not, maybe they were just busy spoiling Lisa and
complaining about how I was off being a pain again. The thought of them made tears spill from
my eyes and I tried hard to stop and focus on how I could actually escape.
Time ticked by, and finally the unsteady rhythm of the horse’s trot came to a halt. I heard
feet landing on the ground, muffled by the sand of the desert. The slight swishing sound of his
footsteps approached me and I felt rough fingers yanking at the rope that tied me to the saddle.
I was dragged by the sack around my head into a sheltered area, I felt a cooler breeze and could
feel the sun off me. Even with the sack over my head, I could see that the atmosphere had gotten
darker. Just then, the bag was wrenched off my head and I looked around squinting a little bit
as my eyes adjusted to the brightness coming from outside the window of the yurt. Inside, the
ground was mostly bare. There was an old folding table and a couple of stools next to it. Where I
was sitting, a garden chair was propped up next to it with a few light blankets and a bucket beside
it. A man, in his mid-40s, sat in front of me on an old bathroom stool. He was obviously a native
Mongolian who was used to living on the Gobi desert. His skin was dark, as if it was accustomed
to the sun, he had his hair in a bun tied with a piece of cloth. He wore a tan t-shirt and olive
green trousers, tucked into a pair of thick, black, woolly boots. What struck me most was that he
did not look like a kidnapper at all, there didn’t seem to be an evil in him, all he did was sit there,
watching me, as if waiting for me to do something crazy.
As soon as I had adjusted to my surroundings, I fixated on him. All he did was stare at me.
Maybe if I got up and left he wouldn’t try and stop me. I began to stand up warily and stepped
delicately towards the door of the yurt. But when I walked to the area where he was sitting, an
