The Night the Mongols Arrive to Sack the City
- 26 minutes ago
- 5 min read
by Emily Rinkema
When I step out of the elevator in the hotel lobby at two in the morning, all I see are Mongols.
It takes me a minute to place them. I slept through much of world history class thirty years ago, but the pointy facial hair, the fur lined helmets, and yak pelt tunics are hard to mistake. They are leaning against walls, draped over the lobby couches, seated cross-legged on the geometric carpets. The smell is heavy, a combination of thick milk, sweat, and meat. I had come downstairs for the free cookies at the hotel desk, but suddenly, I’m not hungry.
The Mongols don’t notice me right away. I’m wearing sweatpants, wool socks, and a Dogs are My People hoodie, which I haven’t taken off since I checked in two days ago, alone. I have nothing with me except my hotel key card. I tuck it into my pocket just as one of them, the smallest one, who is still about a foot and a half taller than I am, grabs my arm and pulls me over to a group of men squatting around a coffee table.
There are four of them, and they are trying to play the board game Sorry. The biggest one growls at me and lunges, but the one to his right, the one with a scar from hairline to chin, puts his arm out the way I used to with my kids in the car, as if I could prevent their little bodies from flying through the windshield. Big Mongol settles back into his squat and stares at the board. They have the cards neatly stacked and the colored pawns lined up with military precision. Small Mongol, who is grasping my upper arm a little too tightly, gestures towards the board.
We used to play Sorry as a family all the time, back when the kids were little, when they were living at home, not off at college on the other side of the country. It was my son’s favorite, and I can still hear his drawn out, high-pitched “Sorrrrrryyyyyyy” as he’d send us back to our starting zones. I crouch down and turn over a card and explain how it’s all about counting, about strategy, about knowing when to bump your opponents, and when to leave them alone. They cock their heads, try to understand the words I’m saying, and just as their eyes start to glaze over, I tell them, never mind, we’re just going to start and figure it out along the way.
“No better way to learn,” I tell them. I move the pawns into their starting areas and then choose Big Mongol, the one who has the yellow pawns, to begin.
By the second round, I’m furious. Nothing is going as it should. Green keeps drawing cards, even when it’s not his turn; Red is trying to bite the head off one of Yellow’s pawns; Blue’s fingers are so big that he keeps knocking over his own pawns; and Yellow has drawn his saber.
“Stop it!” I yell, as Yellow grabs Red’s hair and Green tackles Blue onto the couch behind them. I grab a table lamp and raise it above my head.
Small Mongol steps in front of me. His arms are full of Pringles cans and Cup o’ Noodles. He has raided the pantry behind reception and prevented a slaughter.
By three a.m., most of the Mongols are asleep on the floor. One is sleeping on the desk. Small Mongol and I sit by the elevators. He has gotten his hand stuck in a Pringles can and is working quietly to free it. I tell him about my husband, about the fight we had two nights ago, about how I said I’d had enough, that I was done. I tell him about my kids, my son who just started college in Boston and my daughter, who’s finishing up in Atlanta. I tell him about perimenopause. He’s a good listener. I’ve gotten used to his smell, the sweetness of it. He asks me a question, and even though I don’t know what he’s saying, I thank him for asking, and answer that yes, I’m so angry all the time, that I’m angry at everyone, my husband, of course, but also my kids for leaving, my parents for getting old, my gynecologist for being a gynecologist, the meteorologist, the pharmacist, the neighbor’s baby, the fucking Mongols. I tell him that I want to sleep during the day but am awake all night, that my feet hurt and my joints hurt and sometimes my period is so heavy I can’t leave the house, and last week, just before my husband told me he was in love with his colleague, I found a six inch hair growing out of the side of my neck. I tell him I don’t know who I am. I tell him I’m not sure I’ve ever known who I am. I tell him that I don’t know how to be with myself, alone.
Small Mongol is asleep, his head leaning back against the wall, mouth open. I take his hand and lean against his solid shoulder. For the first time in days, I feel grounded.
Around the table, the game has started back up. Yellow still has his saber out, but he’s waiting his turn. Green reshuffles the deck by spreading all the cards out on the floor in front of him and swirling them around. Blue and Red have combined their pawns and are laughing.
If I remember my history at all, which is questionable, in about an hour, the Mongols will suit up and head out. They like to attack early, before the men are awake, when the world is on pause. I squeeze Small Mongol’s hand and he grunts, but doesn’t open his eyes. I stand up and push the elevator button.
I wonder if middle-aged women are evolutionarily programmed to be awake at this time because of this, so that we can be vigilant, ready to sound the alarm if we hear distant hooves, to save our villages. Or maybe they, we, are awake so that we can welcome the marauders, so we can step aside as they burn down the cities around us, so we can be ready when it’s time to rebuild.
Emily Rinkema lives in northern Vermont. Her stories have recently appeared in Cutleaf, Moon City Review, Milk Candy, and Wigleaf, and have been selected for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction, and Best American Nonrequired Reading anthologies. You can read more at https://www.emilyrinkema.com/ or follow her on BS or IG @emilyrinkema.