A Cure in the Gobi Desert
The International School of Macao, Emily Williams, Fiction: Group 3
3
days. That’s how long it’s been since I last ate. All of the cattle have been killed off by
the cruel weather that has been plaguing my tribe for months. Almost half of the tribe
has perished, too, including my mother. Every time I think of her, I feel tears well up in
my eyes. I think of her smile, that always made me feel safe, her eyes, that always had
a sparkle in them, and then I think of the days leading up to her death. I think of her pale skin,
stretched tight over her bones. And now I think of her body, lost in the desert, forever hidden
away in a shallow grave. Starvation wasn’t the cause of death officially; it was the flu. It has been
spreading around the tribe like wild fire, a fire that cannot be put out.
I have heard of lands far away that have food at the touch of a button, and even have cures
for those that we would deem as lost. And a flu, well that is about as serious as a game of tag.
But then tales are told of lands that are at war, have violence at every turn and where greed has
cursed the hearts of the civilians, and I’m glad I don’t live there. Hunger is a small price to pay
instead of a life of constant fear. Those are some of the tales told again and again by the travelers
that sometimes cross our path. They are often traveling along the Silk Road for trade reasons, and
although they are welcomed into the tribe, they are often quick to leave. They are always shocked
by the harsh conditions we endure. Malnutrition and dehydration are the main problems. I bet
they have a cure for that in the far-away lands.
I glance across the dimly candle lit yurt at my Father and my younger sister. She immediately
snaps her eyes shut and pretends to be asleep.
“Tsetsegmaa,” I whisper her name. Her eyes snap open and I beckon to her. She tries to
unravel herself from her cocoon of thin, ragged blankets, eventually freeing herself. She walks
towards me, shivering in her baggy nightclothes. I let her sit on my lap, just as Mother would
have done. She wraps her arms around my neck and we sit there for a few minutes, letting our
movements speak for us. Tsetsegmaa breaks free of our embrace and gazes into my eyes, her face
full of pain and hunger.
“Sarangerel, I’m hungry,” she carries on looking at me. “Can I have some food? Please,
Sarangerel, I’m so hungry!” Then she breaks down in tears. Sobbing as she had when Mother had
died. I remember her funeral, a small ceremony, in which we buried her body in a small hole in
the ground. I remember Father’s face, frozen in grief. He has not spoken to anyone since. He loved
her so much. But now she is gone.
I am brought back to my senses by a ravaging pain in my stomach, a pain so sharp that
brings tears to my eyes, a pain I know can only be eased by food. And in that split second, I know
I have to find food.
I wait until Tsetsegmaa has gone back to bed and then I start getting ready. I do not intend to
be gone long, but I leave a note on my slate, just in case. Now I try to find the warmest clothes I
can. An old, tattered winter jacket and ripped trousers. I sigh. They will have to do. I grab one of
the two paraffin lamps we own and step in front of the yurt’s small opening. I undo the flap, and
step out into the Gobi desert.
The wind whips round me, quickly stripping me of the little body heat I was producing. It is
cold, colder than it should be. I can already feel myself shivering. I take two steps forward and
