Shortlisted
New Tales of the Gobi Desert
Island School, Tamara Cohas, Fiction: Group 4
A
ll was still in the flatland, with nothing so much as a Camel’s restless snort to awaken
anyone. A calm breeze - which was, here, a rarity - cooled the air and gently pushed
sand grains over one another. The handful of people inhabiting the dune-filled desert
was long asleep, but from inside a miniscule yurt, one boy stirred. Bataar lifted his
head slowly, blinked sand out of his eyes - a common hazard that the Gobi brought - and silently
rose to his blistered feet. The treacherously long hours that loomed ahead should have sent him to
sleep, but Bataar’s churning mind refused to settle. Pushing himself out of the flat bed he shared
with his infant sister, Tuya, he cautiously crept across the yurt to the door. Cursing as a low
whistle of breeze entered the home, he delicately placed the door back into place while stepping
toe by toe, as to not wake so much as an insect.
The first step out of the yurt let his feet graze against sand-filled grass blades. The ground
felt uncomfortably withered and thirsty to the pads of his feet, and he reminisced on the moist
squelching that would often swallow up his toes. Too long it had been since those days. Having
abandoned the grassy territory that the yurt was made upon, Bataar’s feet now submerged into
shallow sand pits with each heavy step. He clamped his eyes together. A miracle, he thought,
perhaps we’ve been lucky. Sure, his alternate persona jeered, we’ll definitely get that one. But
maybe - his mind’s conversation was abruptly cut off. His eyes jerked open, watering from the
suddenness. Bataar’s heart sank to his stomach. A foot down in the sand was where the water had
been, and no wishes could bring that water back.
The water there had been their only hope - summer in the flatlands turned ripe lips into leathery
strips of sandpaper. The year prior had been prosperous, with enough water that the pit had even
flowed over and tickled the toes of Nugai, the family’s Camel. But the weather had taken a turn for
disastrous the past month. Thirsts had barely been quenched, with small rations of Nugai’s milk,
so that it wouldn’t run out. The water that once gushed in the pit had all but dried up, until the
previous week. Father had declared it time to walk once more; to travel for days, possibly weeks, to
find water. As if that had been the final farewell, the pit had been reduced to a hollow as dry as a
withered skeleton.
Bataar stumbled, as if in surprise, backwards, and fell against the wall of the yurt. It rustled
loudly, and he silently cursed himself for possibly rousing his family from sleep. It was fine for
them, he thought. Nugai’s supportive back and broad back could carry Father, Mother and baby
Tuya, but would surely be hindered under the weight of Bataar’s nineteen years. He would lead
Nugai; his feet blistering and immensly painful.
This was home, and had been for all Bataar’s years, and baby Tuya’s one and a half. Both
children had been born in their yurt; their home. Bataar had taken his first, clumsy steps in the
sand just outside the door - and had subsequently fallen face-first into sun-bathed sand. They
couldn’t leave. They would leave behind the memories and the stories and even if they couldn’t
find water anywhere else, they would never find their way back to home.
His weak knees gave way underneath him, and Bataar steadied himself down on the ground.
His head felt weighty, and dropped into his hands. Despite the sand being rubbed into his eyes,
he couldn’t bare to look up at the empty pit. Time passed, and Bataar realized he needed to begin
