“Ling? Are you okay?”
“Yong,” Ling looked up in tears, “Oh, you are bleeding!” He let go of his pal and attended to
Yong’s wound.
“Is it painful? Sorry to have got you involved. You shouldn’t have fought with the bandits.”
“How come I could stand aside looking at you, friends, being attacked? No way! It’s okay. Just
some bruises. They took the herd, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” Ling looked around to confirm the mishap.
“Damn it! What people! Why shouldn’t people be more cooperative?”
“It’s not uncommon. This is for survival. Everybody cares about their own survival. It is our
fate!” Ling explained. He moved over to his parents to see whether they were alright.
Yong felt a strong emotion of helplessness inside, having no way to vent his anger and
grievances. He found himself useless when life-and-death came in play. What was the use of
a painter? He held his fists tight and his ears turned red with rage. He stamped hard on his
smartphone, breaking it further into pieces.
He suddenly realized he was still holding his paint brush. And, very surprisingly, he found his
brush glowing.
“Wow, what happens?” he looked closer at his brush, moving it under the sun. He could not
believe his eyes: when he moved his brush, things appeared. He tried to draw a sparrow, and,
there it was, a sparrow!
Captured by this unknown magic, he swiftly drew some goats, some cows, some chicks---he
remembered Ling’s mother---some Bactrian camels, a well-canvased tent, green grass, cactuses,
gray sparrow’s saltwort, gray sagebrush…. all that he drew turned real.
The Ling family could only glee at these wonders, forgetting their wounds, their lost herds,
their broken trousers ---
Yong remembered the dear delicacy of Ling’s father. So, he drew a new stove and a light fire, a
new bottle of coffee, a new tin mug.
“Would you care for another drink of coffee?” Yong looked at Ling’s father who could not help
but yell for joy. He embraced his wife and his son, laughing, smiling and crying, out of joy.
Ling, in his father’s arms, looked back at Yong, and smiled with his eyes.
Yong, crossing his arms over his chest, suddenly found himself soaring slowly, slowly, above
the sand, and up…up…
When he could recollect his consciousness, he was in his studio.
There, in front of him was a painting, with a family of three, parents and child, smiling
contentedly around a small fire under the warm morning sun over a piece of young green
grassland decorated with a few shrubs and low-growing trees, with some herds grazing around…
What a scene! This was the Gobi Desert, not spectacular like the Grand Canyon, but
“spectacular” with the heart-warming love and bonding of the nomadic people.
“This is the Gobi Desert!” Yong looked into the painting, to the yonder side of the ground-line,
over the edge of the sand dunes --- his heart flying high and his paint brush glowing with glory.
He was thinking of the title: A New Tale of the Gobi Desert.
