Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4-7 2019 | Page 96

I dive for the pieces of the map, wring them into even smaller pieces, tearing them apart with a ferociousness I
have never felt in all my life. The rage, the undying thirst, I curse my father’s soft-heartedness -
My father. He seems like a lifetime away, and at that moment I yearn for him, to hear his gentle voice, to hear
his laughter like music in my ears.
Suddenly I am eight years old again, sitting beside the sea, listening to its song.
“One day you’ll understand what it’s saying,” my father said.
All my life I had been misguided. Staring at a goal far upon the horizon that had only ever been a mirage.
Looking at death full in the face and trying to bring it upon the one person who had trusted me in my captivity, even
though it was his people who had murdered my father.
Zhu Di.
He thought me a brother to him, true in heart. All my life I have detested him for spilling my father’s blood.
Now I have lost all those times I could have stood shoulder to shoulder with him, free from my thirst for vengeance.
I should have forgiven him long ago.
I throw myself on the ground and weep for all that I have lost, and my tears fall like rain upon stones.
~
The seas are smooth today. My ship glides peacefully on the waters. We are sailing home. Back to China.
I lie, delirious, in bed, and I know that I am on my deathbed. As the ship bobs up and down on smooth
waters, I think I hear an old lullaby. Soothing me to sleep.
The sea is singing its song.
“Sir?” comes a voice.
A sailor comes into my cabin, he looks frightened. I know what a state I must look, a dying man of sixty-two,
weakened by the seven voyages of my life.
I reach beneath my tunic and draw out a small bag. I hold it out to the sailor.
“There is little chance that I will survive the journey back,” I say.
“Don’t say that, sir,” whispers the sailor. I look at the young face, and I know it well. This boy has served me
well on my voyages, been most faithful. As he comes towards me I see in his gaze the haunted look that I experienced
when I was ten years old.
“Do one thing for me,” I say. “when I die, I wish for my body to return to the ocean. My blood shall become
the waters of the sea. The sea has been my life – and my body shall be my last tribute.”
The sailor is trembling, but I continue, holding out the bag which contains the last remnants of the map.
“When I die,” I say, “throw this into the sea with my body.”
The sailor takes it with shaking hands.
“What is it, sir?” he whispers.
I look at the sailor, smiling.
“A great treasure,” I answer, “with a magnificent tale behind it. My father forged it with knowledge that came
from his time on the seas. It could serve great purposes – but it must return to the sea, where it belongs.”
The song of the sea fills my ears, lonely and haunting, but to me it is no longer that eerie, mysterious tongue. I
can hear it, transporting me to the world beyond, one that even the greatest emperor cannot conquer.
“One day you will understand what it’s saying,” my father whispers.
I can hear it clearly now, it’s the only thing my age-weakened mind can comprehend.
Forgiveness is Allah’s greatest gift.
Before my eyes I can see the faces of my father, my brother and sisters, Zhu Di, growing ever closer.
I am named after Mohamed. I am my father’s greatest creation.
They call me Zheng He.