Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4-7 2019 | Page 189

Aside from discussing about what happened that day on the ship, or complain about the harsh higher-ups,
the thing they would talk about the most was about their villages.
They would talk about their daily life in the fields, their family, or their agricultural lives. As the ship sailed
away from the safe port we knew and loved, the waves only served as a painful reminder for me of how I`m
sailing away from home, into a dark sea filled with unknowns.
Day after day, it was the same. Zheng He, that great admiral, would pop up his head now and then, to make
some announcement before retiring to his cabin. Yet one day, underneath a spotless azure sky and burning
orange orb, everything changed.
“Men, we`ve reached land. About 2 hours from now, we will arrive on the island of Ceylon. Please, prepare
yourselves, and be ready to move our cargo offshore.
I don’t know if I was happier about a break from the monotony or just to touch dry land again. I can’t say I
walked with a bounce in my step, but I did feel somewhat relieved.
The next two hours came and went in a blur. All I can definitely remember was moving the ornate Mazu
statue on to the deck. Weaving in and out of people rushing about, each with their own load to be
offloaded onshore. Frankly speaking, it was a mess. Each crew member flittered about. Heavy cargo
slammed into each other, and their couriers would exchange curses as they strained under the loads.
The ship slowly decelerated to a halt. The anchor was successfully dropped to the seabed. Some burly-
looking sailors threw thick coils of rope onshore. Planks were lowered, eventually crashing with a thud. We
had officially reached dry land.
We crewmen slowly slid the cargo we had onshore. Piles upon piles of treasure slowly stacked up on the
pier that seemed woefully underprepared for the sheer mountain of gold and jewellery.
An interpreter, who could speak the local language, disembarked with us. He exchanged a few words of
what seemed like gibberish to my ears. The local villager pointed off to somewhere inland. The interpreter
nodded, and came up to Zheng He. “Sir,” he bowed, “The locals have informed us the palace of the
Ceylon King is in this direction.”
We moved towards the royal residence through the city centre, almost like a makeshift parade. The villagers
moved aside to make space for us. They stared at us with wide eyes, wondering what this mass of foreigners
were doing in their homes.
Soon enough, the envoy arrived at a white granite building which dwarfed the surrounding houses. It
loomed above the rows upon rows of small wooden huts, like a bird of prey perched high above, surveying
its territory.
The palace stood in the middle, a white lion presiding over its court. Equally as majestic were the red
wooden doors opening up into the courtyard. A guardsman standing next to the entrance signalled for us to
enter. Zheng He gave him a smile, and walked through the door. The parade moved slowly through the
door after him.
Inside the courtyard were exotic-looking plants. Trees shaped like umbrellas had furry round brown fruits
hanging from them. Flowers bloomed in rows which were surrounded by trees. These plants were in shades
I did not know were real. Spotted cats, which looked like lions without manes, prowled the garden. One of
the felines walked up to an entourage member and bared its fangs. He instinctively jumped away.
The doors to the palace opened up. The interior of the palace was filled with a sweet scent that was the
epitome of exoticness. Spices unknown to me burned in the air, releasing a visible trail of smoke the air.
The smell of burning incense wafted from the windows, filling our nostrils. The interior gleamed, with gold
leaves covering the coving and pillars. Statues lined the walkway leading up to the throne.