Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4-7 2019 | Page 273

Tale of a Thousand Suns
King George V School, Cheung, Geraldine - 16
Calicut, 1433
“I’m not dying.”
At first his question goes unanswered. With the sleeve of his robes pushed back past his elbow, Zheng He
watches as the physician’s fingertips prod at his exposed forearm, pressing at his raised vein. Outside, the sun
is going down, and shadows play and shift over the physician’s fingers as he frowns in concentration.
“I am unsure, Admiral.” Li Wei says at last, straightening up and shaking his head. Zheng He lowers his
sleeve. “You understand, of course- that when one is ill at sea-”
In that moment Zheng He wants to reply that he does understand, but he doesn’t. For years his rule with ill
sailors has been to abandon them on the shore to await death, so that the rest of the crew might not fall ill
with the same sickness. It is a cruel rule, but necessary for the survival of the fleet. But now, when it is his
turn to face such a fate, he is not so sure, and the hesitation scares him.
“Is this illness a certainty, doctor?” he asks Li Wei.
“Pardons, admiral, but if you were not ill I would not be here.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood me. Must I be put ashore?”
Li Wei rubs at the back of his neck. “May I speak freely, admiral?”
“If you must.”
“Well pardons, admiral, but you are not young.” Li Wei looks apologetic. “This illness may take you, or it
may not. The best course of action-”
“I know.”
“It is for the good of the fleet, admiral. For six voyages the fleet has remained strong. It cannot be allowed
to wane.”
“I know that too. But I want to wait until we are sure that this is true illness rather than something minor.
But until then, do not put me ashore. That will be all, doctor. Dismissed.”
Li Wei nods and bows before exiting, and Zheng He sinks back onto the wicker mat bed. Outside, framed
against the cold light, he can faintly see Li Wei’s dark silhouette, speaking with one of his colleagues- one of
the 180 physicians aboard his several baochuan.
He does not want to meet his fate. For a week now the sickness and the coughing has persisted, and Li Wei
seems to want to leave him behind on the shores of Calicut. In fourteen days the fleet will leave Calicut for
Hormuz, and by then Zheng He will have to have made up his mind about staying and leaving.
“You are an admiral.” He mutters to himself. “You’ve sailed to over a hundred shores. You are not afraid.
You’ll do your duty, and no less.”
But some part of him still refuses to. He chooses to push it from his mind.
Sleep is a long time coming that night.
***
Dian Lake, 1377
Ma He does not remember when they first began to play in the lake by the house. Perhaps it was his father
who had led him there first, or perhaps his brother, Ma Wenming. Wenming is a year Ma He’s senior, and
wherever Wenming goes, Ma He always follows.
Only today, he is not so sure. There is a limestone cliff near the house that overlooks the deep waters of the
Dian Lake, easily some twenty chi in height from base to summit. When he was a boy he had witnessed
Wenming ascend the cliff until he was a distant figure easily hidden by Ma He’s thumb, and had watched
him leap from the summit into the lake below. As he fell he had become a blurred silhouette, bird-like and
framed by sunlight, a brief laugh escaping his mouth before he’d plunged into the icy water with a spray of
white foam.
And now Wenming has led Ma He to the cliff, and it is his turn to take the leap. The clear water below
now looks like the mouth of a yawning chasm, mysterious and impossibly wide and a deep, pensive blue.
And Wenming wants Ma He to hurl himself into it.
“Will I die?” He asks.
He is leaning against the wind, which is rippling the water of the lake and nudging Ma He towards the cliff’s
edge.