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cockatrice-writers-guild · 2 years

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Grandchild

Warnings: implied death, light swearing

There was a small cottage a little ways from the town that sat right on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. An accident waiting to happen if you asked me but I digress. In that little structural nightmare lived a rather curious old woman. This wasn’t to say she behaved oddly or anything. At first glance, she was rather ordinary, really. Plain. Her routine was a simple one; of watering plants and going on walks. Eating the same food day after day at the bar in town. Staring out at the sea for hours on end. In fact, almost everything about her was unremarkable.

Almost. For every once in a while, as she ate her usual lunch of fish porridge, shakily bringing the spoon to her lips, she would talk about her granddaughter. A wonderful girl by the sound of it; she’d visit her grandmother every so often, bringing with her strange gifts from foreign lands. Apparently embracing her every time she arrived without fail. Few things brought the woman more joy that a recent visit from her dear grandchild.

(I know all this because in her senile old age, I was assigned to take care of her. Just check up on her every now and then. See how she’s doing. Assist her if needed. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate already.)

See, there was but a single damning piece of evidence that left the picture incomplete. The old crone never married. She had no children and she certainly had no grandchildren. I would have written it off as her just seeing things in her old age but the gifts her so called grandchild left her were as real as anything, strange as they were. A small collection of colourful rocks. A necklace made entirely of pearls in shades I’d never thought pearls could be. Once when checking up on her, I found that an entire new section had been added to her garden, with multitudes of flowers I’d never in all my years of hunting seen before. Flowers that seemed to move even when there was no breeze. Flowers with an almost ethereal beauty to them. Flowers I swear glowed in the dark.

But surely such a thing was just a trick of the light. Just the high of a recent kill. I was just tired. Just used to the ocean breeze. It had been a particularity scorching day when I heard what sounded like song coming from the ocean. I just hadn’t had anything to drink yet. It was just heatstroke. The fact that I’d never seen this kid was merely a coincidence. The claw marks I’d spotted at the edge of the cliff surely just a failed attempt to further expand the garden.

The thing is, in my line of work you saw a lot of things. Some say most new hunters can’t find it in themselves to sleep after experiencing for themselves the horrors the world truly had to offer. I can attest for that. But deep down, those flowers, that woman, that grandchild…unsettled me like nothing else.

I needed some time off. Chief said it was for the best. After witnessing such a thing, she’d admitted, even she would have needed some time to get into a better a headspace. And I’d done all I could have. I needed to remember that. Even brought down the beast in the end. I should’ve been proud, really. After all, it’s not just anyone who can take down one of the merfolk. I’d saved hundreds of lives if not more.

I didn’t sleep that night.

A few days passed before I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to do something. Anything to keep my mind off what had happened. Being along with my thoughts was a proper hell in its own right. …surely that old bat needed assistance. When she found out what had happened, she came over and talked to me for a while, bringing with her some simple broth from the inn, her usual dinner. She’d sat there and refused to leave until every last drop was gone. Said nobody should have to go through something like that. That her granddaughter had heard about what happened and offered her condolences. That if I ever needed someone to talk to…

Surely, I reasoned as I washed my face and pulled some fresh clothes from my closet, surely she wouldn’t mind an earlier that usual visit. She was hopeless without me, after all. It was my duty to check up on her, really. I pulled on a leather coat and my usual boots. My hat. I placed my hand on the doorknob and readied myself to finally go outside but…

That damn grandchild…

I needed my crossbow. Heaven forbid I shoot an old woman’s imaginary daughter. I would never do such a thing in my life. Never. It was just a precaution, is all. The world was a dangerous place and the woods between the town and that decrepit little cottage could be full of nasty creatures waiting for their next meal.

Just a precaution.

I pulled it from it’s spot on the wall, wiped off the thin layer of dust that had formed and strapped it across my back, checking to make sure I had a few arrows as well. Maybe I could go hunting after checking up on her. To clear my head. Cook up something with the meat and share it if I accidently made too much.

The day was sunny and cloudless. Blindingly so. The market loud as ever. Cheerful birdsong filled my ears as I walked. I reached the woods faster than expected. Pixies raced each other through the air and a jackalope eyed me warily as I passed, probably knowing a weapon when it saw one. I gave the creature a respectful nod before continuing on my way.

It was obvious long before I reached the clearing that something was wrong.

Specifically, it was the noise. A sound that easily carried through the air, low and melodious and familiar. Full of clicks and notes and what sounded like almost human vocals. Beautiful and haunting and without a shadow of a doubt the song of a mer.

I found my crossbow in my hands, already loaded by the time I made it to the other side of the trees.

The sight alone made my blood freeze.

The thing was massive. By far one of the biggest merfolk I’d ever seen, it’s humanoid top half easily towering over the small cottage. It’s skin was black as pitch and shone unnaturally in the sun. Huge milky white eyes hid partially behind long slimy seaweed-like hair. Needle-like teeth, each one at least as tall as the average man, took up nearly half of it’s monstrous face. It’s fingers ended in jagged claws and in the beasts clutches stood the old woman, her back turned to me. The mers’ head was bowed to her and even as I stood there, she embraced the beasts’ face and it made another series of clicks and notes so loud it made my head swim.

I couldn’t make sense of it.

None at all.

I aimed the loaded bow at the beast’s forehead almost automatically. How long would it take to bring down a creature of this size? I had only brought a few arrows with me. Would one arrow buy enough time to bring the old lady to safety?

Before either question could be answered, however, the beast seemed to sense my presence. The full weight of its’ pale eyes landed on me and I flinched, in spite of myself. It let out what must have been a warning growl, a noise that sounded as if one of those horridly loud steam bellowing contraptions the inventor nearby seemed so hell bent on making had fallen into the water while it was still running. The old woman noticed the sudden change in the beast’s mood and turned around. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the weapon. Of me.

This couldn’t be real.

I was frozen. Forced to watch as she turned to the monster and seemed to murmur to it. Forced to watch as the beast slowly inclined its’ massive head as if, to some extent, it understood what she was saying. Forced to watch as, with what seemed like the upmost care, the mer’s claws wrapped around the old woman’s comparably tiny frame and placed her on the ground. As she walked towards me slowly, cautiously, as if afraid to startle me. Of what I might do. As she placed a weathered hand on my crossbow, which was now aimed right at her chest, and forced the weapon down. As I let her. She pulled me into a tight hug. I let her do that as well.

I hadn’t realized how fast my breathing had gotten.

The mer didn’t make any move towards us, simply watching silently. It was wearing a necklace too, I realized after a moment. One strung with old pieces of wood and small marble statues and huge shells. A matching set.

The old woman kept me in her clutches until I had stopped shaking, stroking my back all the while. And finally, I found my voice.

“W-what is-,” I started.

The old woman simply hushed me gently before I could finish. Inclined her head at the mer behind her. “My granddaughter,” she said simply before taking one of my rigid hands and pulling me forward, towards her cottage.

“We…have a lot to talk about, dear.”

#writeblr #original writing #original story #ocs #the rooster crows

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schleierkauz · 4 years

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The Color of Revenge: Chapter 11

Here it is! Enjoy! Thanks @bluejayfiredancer! I’m gonna go wash my hair!

Chapter 11: Such Beautiful Pictures

Her Ugliness. That had been the title Violante’s subjects gave her when her father, the Adderhead, put her on the throne of Ombra. She truly was not beautiful but these days Ombra’s citizens had other names for her: Violante the Kind. Violante the Brave. Violante the Well-Beloved.

Fenoglio had never written about her, but he often wished he had invented her. What a fantastic character! But just like her father, the Inkweaver had overlooked and underestimated the unhappy, unremarkable girl.

Violante of Ombra was proof that we can invent ourselves.

The morning Orpheus‘ revenge made the Inkweaver and all the others disappear started just like any other. Violante climbed the steep spiral staircase which led from her sleeping chamber to her library to welcome the new day with a book in her hand.

No one was allowed to interrupt her during these early hours, not even Monferrata, the old maid who had been with her since her tenth birthday and who helped her into her clothes every morning, brushed her hair and, with a sullen face, anticipated her every wish.

Monferrata did not understand Violante’s passion for books, but in the past she had sometimes brought her a few from her terrible father’s library. Books had been Violante’s only friends. They had given her words, words for her most secret fears and desires, words that gave her the home she had never known, security and hope, love and friendship.

Violante still felt as though books could understand her better than people could. But they had not taught her to be a better mother. The Black Prince had done that, by allowing Jacopo to travel with the strolling players and bringing her back a son who laughed and dared to be a child. He no longer seemed like a copy of her awful father. For a few months, she and the Prince had even been more than just friends. Barely anyone knew about it, it had been a fleeting love, but the Prince had helped her leave behind the nightmare of her childhood and gave her what she needed to understand Jacopo.

Now she took rides with her son and watched when he practiced his sword skills with the castle guards, but she still visited her books by herself.

The rising sun painted the sky as if someone had scraped it bloody. The light reddened even the white pages of the books and it filled Violante with an unease that later seemed like a premonition of oncoming doom.

Antonio, the librarian who had already cared for the books of her father-in-law, welcomed her, like every morning, with a respectful (if slightly stiff) bow before silently bringing her the book she was currently reading. His hair was gray but his love for the books he cared for gave him the smile of a boy and he opened the book for her exactly where she had closed it the day before.

It was filled with the travelogues of a Venetian merchant who had trekked many thousand miles east and came back with stories of faraway lands and wonders the likes of which had never been seen before. His tales had been illustrated by a Persian illuminator the merchant had met at the court of a sultan. Violante was careful not to mention it in front of Balbulus but she loved the pictures, even though they were very foreign to her.

Just as she was looking up from an impressively realistic portrait of an elephant, she noticed another book lying open on one of the other tables.

That was strange.

Antonio didn’t usually leave books on the tables and certainly not open ones. Violante worried whether the old librarian was getting forgetful. He struggled to climb the ladders to the highest shelves these days, didn’t he?

She approached the table. The cover of the book was made of blackened leather. That was strange as well. The Bluejay bound all her books in wine red leather and as she stepped closer she wondered if Mortimer had wanted to surprise her. Maybe he had dyed the leather such an off-putting color because the book contained dark tales.

On her instruction he decorated the covers of all her books with lavish golden stampings of leaves, flowers or butterflies but the books laid out in front of her was plain. The only exception was a small heart on the front cover. It was surrounded by flames and there was an O stamped into the middle of it, so deeply it looked as if there was a hole torn through the heart.

Usually Violante’s finger couldn’t wait to open a new book but to her own surprise they seemed to hesitate with this one. The pages following the soot black endpapers had definitely been illuminated by Balbulus and Violante immediately realized that she was looking at his best work so far.

She was unfamiliar with the text that was framed by his paintings. It seemed to be one of the folk tales that were popular in this area. But Violante forgot about the words when she recognized the figures Balbulus had adorned the initial at the top of the page with. It was an O – and Mortimer Folchart and his wife Resa looked back at Violante. They both seemed so real, she thought she could hear them breathe. But what shook her even more than the uncanny likeness was the sadness on their faces. The two of them had always been so happy these last few years.

The words following the initial made no mention of the Bluejay or his talented wife. They didn’t seem to have anything to do with the other pictures on the page either. Balbulus was usually very proud that his pictures, as he liked to say, made the words visible.

The initial on the next page was filled with nothing but a few masterfully painted wild flowers. But when Violante reached an R, she found the portrait of Mortimer’s daughter Meggie with her fiancé Doria, just as true-to-life as her father… and just as sad.

She kept turning the pages, faster and faster. The Inkweaver looked at her from a P, the wrinkly cheeks damp with tears. In a P she spotted the only woman in Ombra who loved books even more than she did – Elinor Loredan, alongside her librarian Darius. And there! In an E, Roxane and her daughter Brianna, Violante’s maid and closest confidant! Brianna’s eyes were wide with horror.

Violante recoiled. What had gotten into Balbulus?! She would take away his paints and throw his brushes into the fire!

She spun around when she heard footsteps approaching outside. Hesitant, fearful footsteps. They stopped.

No one bothered Violante in her library, even though they called her Her Kindliness these days. Everyone knew that she had inherited her father’s fiery temper.

The knocking on the door was quiet but insistent. The morning light falling through the windows was still red.

“What?“

Violante pushed down her anger by remembering her father’s foul temper. Nothing motivated the Adderhead’s daughter more than the desire to never be like him.

The girl who stepped through the door was one of the maids. She stared at the books that filled the room as though she expected Violante to throw one of them at her.

Stupid girl.

If anything, she would have thrown her shoe, not one of her beloved books. Violante had to admit that that had happened in the past. Inescapably her father’s daughter.

But Rosetta, that was the maid’s name, feared Violante’s books for a different reason. She was afraid of letters and words because they could be used to curse human beings and livestock. That was what her mother had taught her, at least.

“I-I’m so sorry, Your Highness,“ she stammered. “I know we- we aren’t supposed to bother you here but… It’s so terrible!”

She held up her hands. They were as red as the sky.

“What is that?“ Violante snapped. “Is that blood?“

Rosetta looked at her with the same horror Violante had seen on the painted faces.

“It’s everywhere, Your Highness!“ she stammered. “S-so much blood, everywhere! Even his brushes-“

Rosetta started crying. For a man who had treated her and the other servants with less respect than he’d shown Violante’s horses. But Balbulus’ paintings had explained the world to her. One didn’t have to be literate to understand pictures. They were the words of the poor. And that was why Rosetta shed tears for the Great Balbulus, even though he had always shooed her away with harsh words whenever she had forgotten her duties over his art.

Balbulus was still lying in his own blood when Violante followed the sobbing maid into his chamber. It wasn’t as bright red as he had painted it for his pictures. Death had dyed it a filthy brown and the illuminator was forever still in his stained clothes as if the colors had left him along with his life.

(Next chapter)

#the color of revenge #cornelia funke #ly dont look #inkworld #alright i know we all wanted to hear from dustfinger #but this chapter is still A Lot #like...#okay first of all #every time i think i couldn't stan the prince harder #he goes and Does That #NOT ONLY asking if jacopo needed a father figure and not waiting for an answer #but also having an affair with her mom just long enough to give her therapy???#*his mom lol #did this man just spent the last peaceful 5 years fixing everyone's problems????#incredible. iconic. please come cure my depression.#also orpheus.....omg...#i'm not even gonna say anything we can discuss that later i have to go to bed #good night!

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memorylang · 4 years

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Identity at the End | #34 | March 2020

With this last story, I share my journey crossing the States, having arrived from Mongolia beyond a blur evacuating around COVID-19.

With this to conclude my first nine months a Peace Corps Volunteer, I focus on identity. I share subtle moments from between hours of packing, farewells to Mongolian friends and the journey to Mongolia’s capital. I also share huge moments from my flights crossing Eurasia. By my stories’ end, you’ll know what’s next.

First, let’s pick up where we left off.

America Alone

Moments before, I said goodbye to the last Peace Corps Volunteer I’d see for a while. That late Thursday, March 5, I just had me now.

I stepped inside the Radisson JFK where I’d stay this night. I felt a little disappointed the receptionist said to take the 5:30 a.m. shuttle not the 6:30 (when I could’ve gotten breakfast). But I tried not to sweat it, knowing my backpack of food from Mongolia remained.

That night, I enjoyed a refreshing shower, rested four and a half hours and reorganized my packs to get off the many clothes layers I wouldn’t wear flying to Vegas. Then I headed forth before the crack of dawn.

Turns out my flight’s captain rode our shuttle, which felt neat. Being able to understand people’s small talk in English felt weird. Like a superpower.

The shuttle driver had us announce our airlines, then he dropped us off accordingly. Nice guy.

I wandered to find Delta in JFK’s big place. Bright lights contrasted outside’s darkness. American diversity caught my eye. I felt amazed, seeing so many different looking people. I felt as though in ‘another country’ in the Big Apple. Even when I lived in Nevada, visiting NYC felt like trips abroad.

I felt surprised to see almost no one wore masks to try mitigating Coronavirus spread. I heard New York had serious cases. So, I let my guard down a little, figuring on that Friday, March 6, I’d escaped global paranoia.

One Last Airport

Well, at my check-in desk, the woman told me to stand against a wall when I spoke of having returned from Mongolia. She added she was joking. I didn’t like her joke. Thus, I returned to limit mentioning I was in Mongolia (which, at that time, had no COVID-19 cases).

As I waited in lines, I checked my phone to see Peace Corps friends announcing in our group chat they were home. Others had stickier situations. My Catholic friend, for example, got stranded overnight in Berlin, since his group, scheduled to fly through Frankfurt, rescheduled. My friend sent me beautiful photos from his Berlin outing. I felt glad.

After clearing security, I felt convenience being able to prop my foot on a bench to tie my boot. To elevate feet is a bit taboo in Mongolia. So, American culture has its conveniences.

Aboard the shuttle to my gate, I noticed the time and saw I’d reach by 6:30 a.m., not even boarding till 7:30. I could’ve had time to grab breakfast at the hotel. But, then I remembered today’s the second Friday of Lent. So, a fasting day. Perhaps God did me a favor having me miss breakfast, hehe...

American Culture

In the West, I get few bonus points for adhering to culture norms. Especially in the States, many unremarkably expect others to know how things work.

I felt this at a water fountain near my JFK gate. A woman stood sort of behind a man refilling his bottle, but she was a bit to the left side. So I asked her, "Are you filling up, too?" She replied yes pleasantly. So I waited to refill my bottle after her.

Americans expect each other to wait their turns. We assume people who arrive first should go first. If we're not sure, we might ask. On the flip side, in the East, usually the most urgent people go, even if they’re not first.

I also liked how people in Asia felt more amazed when I followed cultural norms, for they often didn’t expect foreigners to know them. I received more forgiveness, too, for my Asian faux pas, too.

(Bonus points if you remembered I couldn’t find a drinking fountain in Amsterdam’s airport, the day before!)

Ready for Takeoff

I returned to my waiting area seat. Amusingly, I noticed my Delta flight marked, ‘DL’—It had my name on it! I shared. Peace Corps staff liked my joke.

When my Peace Corps cohort first met last May, we’d asked each other where in the States we came from. Fast-forward nine months to a couple days ago in Mongolia’s capital for evacuation, and we’d asked the reverse: where we’d fly home. Many felt surprised I’d fly to Vegas, for they say I don’t seem I’d be from there. I usually just added it’s where my family lives. I think my Midwestern childhood shaped me enough to still consider myself more ‘from’ the Midwest. Still, Vegas is alright.

We boarded, and I, having settled in, found myself with my last flight home. Outside, I saw personnel defrosting the wing. I remembered Ulaanbaatar the day before. This time, chemicals weren’t green, just misty.

As our plane climbed, I paused, pondering how to mark the occasion of my Peace Corps journey’s last leg. And so, identity resurfaced as what I sought to reevaluate. Now, I take you one last time down evacuation memory lane.

World Window—Change

Barely a week earlier than New York was Thursday, Feb. 27, and I needed a break. The night before, we Peace Corps Mongolia Volunteers learned we’d leave and had to pack up as fast as feasible. So in my apartment I pushed the night through day, finally sleeping that afternoon after receiving notice I wouldn’t leave till the coming Sunday, March 1.

I paused later that evening, taking another break from packing. A Peace Corps cohort friend called me. We sometimes chatted on slower evenings to check in, given our shared interests in anthropology, history, religions and the like.

Well, we wound up chatting a cathartic two hours (which wasn’t too uncommon). Since her province was near the capital, Peace Corps would collect Volunteers from her site over a day before mine. So she’d already arrive and could fill me in after I make it. I felt seeing each other again so soon since December would feel weird but cool!

As we talked, I’d paced into my bedroom, habitually gazing out my window.

The sun was setting. I’d only two sunsets left before leaving this city I loved. I longed to savor these moments. As the call progressed, a dark night bloomed with faraway lights seeming star-like.

My window overlooked both a nearby hill to my ger district on the left and faraway hills of another get district toward the center. In my right periphery, I saw a smidge of downtown’s few tall apartments, beside the two-lane main road. Few cars passed afar now, for cops enforced people remain at home to mitigate Coronavirus’ spread if it reached Mongolia.

World Window—Acceptance

I realized while chatting with my Peace Corps friend, when I first arrived in this city, I felt lonelier. This quarantine revived my August 2019 feeling of knowing people are out there but not knowing where to see them. At that time, I didn’t know who they were or what they were like.

So now, I realized, I’d really integrated, after all.

Integration wasn’t how I expected—Peace Corps life rarely is.

I worried, when Peace Corps Mongolia placed me at a site that’s known Volunteers for generations, I could have to live up to predecessors’ standards. But rather, locals seemed more interested in knowing me for me. I found adventure in uncovering past cohorts through locals’ fond memories.

In my city, I met so many talented people with huge dreams. And they wanted me to be part of those dreams (or I already was). I hoped in the days following to fit the few goodbyes I could.

For, I’ve loved being a Volunteer. To live as a servant feels liberating. I live to serve, and the world meets my needs. In whatever jobs I take after Peace Corps, I want to serve.

My friend and I’d later meet again Monday afternoon, March 2, when she caught me up in the capital. We drained our bank accounts together that Wednesday. And on Thursday, March 5, we coincidentally sat i n the same row for our flights to Moscow and Berlin.

Easier Being Me Overseas

Cultures sure reveal subjectivities.

Before Peace Corps, many people I knew, including my parents, didn’t like much my abnormally great willingness to let my joy be joy and show my enthusiasm as it is. Indeed, many preferred I be less ‘that.’ As I grew older, I learned to stifle these more regularly. I considered if I was blessed with great joy, then praying for temperance can help me balance it.

To my amazement, many Mongolians found my tendencies endearing. I loved how in Mongolia, many enjoyed my idle rhythmic movements, calling them, “dancing,” versus my dad’s more patronizing label of, “swaying in the breeze.” (Even Mom once asked a doctor if I’d something wrong with me…) So Mongolians were kinder.

On Sunday, March 1, while my Peace Corps group evacuated to the capital and our car met up with the van, I felt overjoyed seeing again Peace Corps friends.

I know expressiveness has its time and place—I did public relations and communications. But in interpersonal life, when we’re freer to be ourselves, I try to be myself. And, while people in the West tended to view my actions as ‘childish,’ those in the East tended to view the same as ‘cute.’ Mongolians (and Chinese, too) more often enjoyed my visible and verbal elation toward our world’s wonders. I felt relieved from greater acceptance.

But, I felt touched, too, by a Peace Corps friend who asked me to give her a moment for sorrow when she needed it. To voice our needs, I feel, is among the most powerful and difficult tasks in our lives. When she had that courage, I respected her wishes and returned to humble masking. Outside, I still felt awed to bask in snowy hills we Peace Corps Volunteers had to leave behind.

My friend and I reconnected the next day, after getting time in the capital to understand our evacuation. She was my senior cohort friend I enjoyed dinner with Monday night, alongside the anthro. friend from my cohort.

From Nine Months—Mongolian?

Throughout Lunar New Year’s /Tsagaan Sar/, I confused local children when they opened their family’s doors to me. Their parents would explain I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer from America who speaks English, to which the children would apologize to me thinking I was Mongolian!

I didn’t mind. I figured this mostly came from children’s lack of meeting foreigners.

Fast-forward a few days later, and my friends gathered in my apartment to see me off Saturday night, Feb. 29. While they relaxed in my living room thankfully enjoying my snacks, they asked what I'd do in the States and how I felt. I admitted worries that American anti-Asian sentiments grew, considering Coronavirus’ source as China.

But my friends looked shocked and insisted, no I don't look Chinese, I just look American.

I mentally pushed back, knowing I look to most Americans Chinese (but at least Asian). Still, I felt debating whether Americans think I look American felt trivial. I just chuckled, accepting my friends’ positive vibes. If only more Americans were as inclusive as these Mongolians...

During my sunset hike later that night, my high schooler friend added something else:

"You look like a Mongolian person!"

Having summited and taken our selfies, I sat nonchalantly on a rock. I wore my face mask, hats and all, plus the sky-blue jacket my colleagues gifted me. My friend insisted I looked Mongolian. I had him photograph me so I could share it with the others. To my amazement, my FLEX alumnus friend agreed with the teen! I hadn’t done anything outside my norm, so I felt amused that my mannerisms made me seem Mongolian to Mongolians.

Nine months seems enough time to be born again.

Flying Mongolian

Aboard my MIAT Mongolian Airlines flight from Thursday, March 5, identity confusion extended.

The experience led me to ponder, one does not often aspire to be a foreigner. People yearn to belong, to integrate.

Here’s the first part. As the flight attendant came down the aisle, she addressed passengers in either Mongolian and English (and maybe Russian, too). But when she reached me, she spoke straight Mongolian! I felt surprised but went with it. I replied, "цай" /tsahy/ (tea), followed by "хамаагүй" /ha-mah-gwee/ (doesn't matter) when she inquired which kind.

I felt shocked how smooth that went, too. It reminded me of flights to and from China, when attendants would sometimes address me in Chinese and I’d reply likewise.

Still, the next few times the attendants addressed me, they continued speaking to me exclusively in Mongolian, even after they spoke English to my Caucasian Peace Corps Volunteer friend seated across my row.

Eventually I reckoned flight staff thought I was Mongolian because I wore a face mask like Mongolian passengers.

Before long, I felt a moment's impostor situation. Flight staff came back down the aisle to ask about drinks again, after serving meals. I'd my mask off.

I feared, this is it. They'll see me as the foreigner I am and stop speaking to me in Mongolian. Well, I felt moved while it lasted.

Then God surprised me! The attendant asked in Mongolian what I’d drink. She didn't quite hear me a moment, though. I flinched—I thought, oh, she can see my lips, she’ll know I’m inauthentic.

I trooped on anyway and tried again, "ус" /ohs/ (water). She heard, provided and continued on—And that was that.

I felt stunned.

Ultimately, I felt so content Mongolians assumed me for Mongolian. I guess that's the ultimate step of belonging—being believed to be like anyone else.

Never in high school would I have guessed that the civilization I loved so much might one day assume I too came from their great nation Chinggis Khaan made.

Flying Ambiguity

I later felt disappointed when a flight attendant responded, "Water?" in response to something I asked in Mongolian.

So I wondered what factors influenced with which language flight attendants addressed me.

I wondered if my Asian features made me seem Mongolian. Or maybe the sky blue jacket my colleagues gifted. I suspected once I hid my mask and stowed my extra cold-weather sweater that I took on the more "foreign" look. Perhaps my mannerisms influenced, too. Maybe when I read English language books, I seemed better to speak English with.

But I acknowledged even on Chinese airlines, attendants consistently inconsistently chose in which language to address me. So, achieving similar cultural ambiguity for seeming as Mongolian to Mongolians as I seemed Chinese to Chinese felt the best of both worlds!

Further, as our flight was leaving Moscow for Berlin, I noticed attendants asked me in English, "Please stow your luggage under the seat," but in Mongolian said, "Please turn off your phone."

Originally I wondered if maybe some just didn't know English? But I heard them speak it. Maybe speaking English just took more mental energy? I hypothesized at last they spoke English when they suspected I wouldn’t understand the Mongolian, otherwise addressing me in Mongolian.

On an amusing note, I noticed on the flight, “бүсээ” /büsehh/ meant “belt,” which sounded similar to the word “бүс,” which Peace Corps Mongolia translated as “region.” I felt comforted by this simple connection I made in trying to get the language.

But my language musings fell away once we touched down in Berlin and made the many farewells. I transferred from the Mongolian airline to a Dutch one. European cultures drew my attention. Then at last I reached America.

Discerning Aspirations

As I flew alone above the States, I felt the hollowness of having made my last goodbyes to amazing Peace Corps people.

When I get the call back to Mongolia, I’ll go. If I can’t, I’ll find a new path.

In the meantime, I accepted my first nine Mongolian months had passed. Moments later, I felt the vibes of my past flights from New York home to Vegas. I tended to see in-flight films back then.

With hours left till Vegas, I relaxed, taking up my ol’ habit searching for either Chinese films or English ones subtitled in Chinese. “Frozen II” had subtitles. I’d passed it on flights before, so I decided I’d give it a try.

Then I felt moved. Seeing Anna’s self-giving love and Elsa’s identity bound seeking their late mother, “Frozen II” catalyzed my new start in America. I actually cried from its climax. (So, see “Frozen II” ahead of the story I’ll write this May, if you fear spoilers.) I’ll return to this in time for Mother’s Day.

The End

For now, this marks the finale to my Mongolian start as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Having returned home Friday, March 6, 2020 to an America just waking up to COVID-19, I’ve been stateside exactly eight weeks now.

Less than 10 days after my return home, Peace Corps would make international headlines, and my life flared up that Lent. Then came Easter, life’s renewal.

So something’s next—sweeping us through both March and April, 2020—my Easter epilogue.

Till then, thank you for joining me. I hope you learned something from these 34 stories—They were at least entertaining, right? Well, thanks for humoring me anyway. I look forward to sharing with you how I’ve spent my American quarantine and the hope in life to come.

Love, Daniel <3

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :)

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