sideway at the young man’s red embarrassed face, who was obviously shameful about his miss, but
also relieved that the girl’s friend lived. In fact, living strong enough to wound him.
“No matter. You can tell me when I patch you up, come!” The girl gripped his wrist and turned
towards her home. The man seemed hesitant, as if going to decline the favour—out of etiquette, out
of customs in the modern world, out of unspoken taboo… But no, all these cares flew away just as
the golden eagle took flight again, into the whitening sky. After all, when he decided to stride into
the wilderness, he had already left all behind. Except his bow and arrows. Oh, and that. Yes, that.
They watched the eagle’s silhouette fade further and further away in front of the girl’s wooden
shed. “Perhaps he is searching for the greener land again, the climate here is too harsh, even for
a golden eagle sometimes—the wind howls too fiercely, the sands slap too hard on your face and
the icy snow bites too deep into your bone…” The girl squinted her eyes against the rising sun and
looked hard into the far end of the sky, “oh…a snowstorm may be coming in several days.”
The girl then led the youth into her home, gesturing him to sit down beside the hearth, which
was nothing more than a cold, palely glowing fire amongst a pile of firewood and pine needles.
“So…who are you?” She asked cleansing the youth’s wound with steaming water and preparing
the ‘bandage’ torn off from some hessian cloth, “what brings you to such desolate lands?”
The young man beheld the girl’s mien, pondering and weighing matters. “They call me
Wanderer. I have come here after the call of a legend. Legend merely.”
“What kind of a legend?” Fire of excitement danced in the girl’s clear eyes, “and ‘Wanderer’
is no name! I am Astari, and I tell you so. I am who I am, you are who you are. Why do you hide
yourself?” Astari’s eyes spoke of the pure starlight, conceiving none of the vast void and darkness
not warmed by stars.
Wanderer seemed to be at a loss in the face of Astari’s untainted belief. Either out of surprise
or frustration he let out more than he intended, “My house has long forgotten our last name, we
are a people with no name.”
Astari’s eyes sent even wider at this outburst, her eyebrows arched like rainbows over the
deep, blue oceans. “When? Why?”
Wanderer nearly rolled his eyes at the girl’s unceasing curiosity and naivety, but caught
himself before doing so for he couldn’t help but fall into the trap of those hypnotising eyes and
came to adore her a little bit.
“It is a legend of my lineage, or so am I told since memories found me. It speaks of a lost
heirloom somewhere deep in the wilderness… And with it buried ourselves and our fate too.
It tells the story of my ancestor, Elro, meeting a mysterious girl named Sarangerel in one of his
travels back in those nomad days. In those days, the fields were greener and the air was sweeter
with fragrance of herbage. They rolled in the long grass, chased their silhouettes under the moon,
perched on treetops counting stars… All was good until storms and tides forced them apart.
Apart in two worlds they might be, but they had buried the one powerful token of their
promise before the tragic end. It is rumoured that finding this heirloom means recovering the
missing part of my house and myself. Long have my forefathers been in search for this, long have
they strode unfriendly lands of strangers… And finally, this duty now comes to me, as a treasure
and a burden all at once. So I’ve come.”
Silence gently flooded the shed at the face of the great confession, all was still but for the
slight pattering of dying fire. This was when Wanderer started to hum bits and pieces of the myth:
