Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4-7 2019 | Page 194

A few awkward seconds passed. The figure bit her lip and frowned. "Mat-Su." she motioned towards the
sea, "Protector of sailors, fishermen, and merchants across the world’s oceans. The guardian of your people
– the subject of your childhood stories."
"Doesn't ring a bell."
Mat-Su was in disbelief, though why that was Ngendo could not tell. Her frown faded like a receding tide,
replaced by a tsunami of emotions. Doubt, anger, fear and finally dread.
Mat-Su contemplated her words. "Where’s the fleet?", she demanded, a stern demeanor clouding her
visage. She stared the child dead in the eye. "What year is this? What do you call this barbarian realm of
yours?" Thunder rumbled in the distance, the clouds circling the cove like crows and the tumultuous waves
braying eagerly, like warriors sharpening their axes in anticipation of conflict.
“I…I swear I don’t know!” Ngendo cried, dried tears bursting out like a flood from a dam as Mat-Su grew
ever more livid. Suddenly, Mat-su’s vision began to fade…
***
1430, the Swahili Coast
The monsoon descended.
The crew of the treasure junk Qinghe had journeyed long and far. For decades, the crew had been part of
Admiral Zheng He's armada, hopping port to port from China to Arabia, where kings and sultans would gift
them with a multitude of treasures and murals for the Celestial Emperor's purview which were all stored
within the Qinghe's vaults. However, the further west they sailed, the more alien the localities got and the
less their maps could help them. Eventually, the Qinghe lost sight of Admiral Zheng's fleet and drafted away
in one of the Indian Ocean's nasty fits.
The tributes to the Emperor still glowed like earthborn stars, but the ship's crew had grown dull and gray.
The hairpins that tied together the sailor's buns grew loose as another strand of hair fell off. So much time
had passed that home was now a distant memory. When another friend passed, the surviving crew grew
acutely aware of their own mortality. Now the myriad forces of nature had finally gathered for a knock-
out blow.
The Qinghe's interior had been a prideful show of China's wealth. Now, the junk's lavishness mocked her
crew, who had been so obnoxious as to think they could traverse the seas with impertinence. A gale tore
through the sails as if they were paper, the ripping of cloth painfully audible. Brackish, pungent seawater
poured in, straining the floorboards, which creaked with pain. The might of the sea proved to be too much
a match for the ornate colossus as the Qinghe began to fall apart.
The captain of this ancient vessel was just as aged as his ship. His eyes sank into his sockets, the skin upon
his fingers hung loose like a candy wrapper while arthritis plagued his joints. But the captain had a will of
iron. Unsheathing his sword, he lodged his blade in the planks and knelt in reverence to a statuette--a
stone-crafted lady with a flowing gown of a jade and a flame that danced upon her palm.
“Save us, Mat-Su,” croaked the captain. He pressed his head to the floor in a pious kow-tow, “save us
from heaven's wra-”
The Qinghe let out a great moan. The wind sliced away at the decks and plucked sailors into the grey sky
as if ragdolls. Even as the junk was disassembled plank by plank, the captain quietly whispered to the
Heavenly Mother.
Another wave came, knocking down the statuette. With haunting clarity, the captain realized the Goddess
had abandoned him. He spared a thought for his wife and his children, whom he had abandoned for an
exciting life at sea. He spared a thought for his crew and his ship – the nation’s pride. He spared a thought
for home. Then he left the final seconds of his life for Mat-Su, cursing her: the uncaring, incompetent
Goddess Mat-Su, indifferent to his plight and predicament.
With that, the Qinghe gave a final roar of defiance as it dived into the roaring currents, the hull finally
cracking under the force of the impact. The broken body of the vessel sank beneath the waves, and with it,
the failed Goddess plunged into the seabed, the centerpiece of the graveyard housing her devout followers.
***
Mat-Su snapped out of her trance. She stumbled to the edge of the cove, steadying herself with a hand to
the wall. Her chest hurt, and her hair was drenched in seawater. A putrid scent emanated from her body.
Her throat valiantly held back the surge of warm fluids from her abdomen, which left her mouth anyway in
the form of slimy green bile. A coughing fit later, she reoriented herself and staggered forwards.
Surprisingly enough, the young girl – “Ngendo”? – was still too petrified to move a muscle. Perhaps she
should force some information from the girl? No , she reminded herself: I am a benevolent Goddess .