Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 | Page 136

My Personal Diary
King George V School, Zhao, Rou - 11
The night before I set off.
Through the cracked, fog-clouded windows, I can see the waves roaring and spitting foam. A
frothing, raging tide, blazing underneath the golden, silk-woven moon.
“Zheng He, are you crazy?” Calloused hands thump my back. “There are pirates out there. Have
you not heard of Chen Ziyu?” I hear chairs scoot closer, and a hand gripping my face, pulling me closer to a
hushed, husky voice. I turn to face my friend as his spittle grazes my ear. “Chen Ziyu is the most feared and
respected pirate. He will be sure to hear about hundreds of ships carrying these treasures! He will surely
come murder you!
And if he doesn’t get to you first, the waves will. They drown and they are greedy. They grasp
countless men with blood-washed fingers and sink them to the remnants of shipwrecks and skeletons, not
to mention the-”
Their words are like a constant twittering of birds pecking me raw. Be careful of this. You will die
because of that. There are pirates out there. There are monsters out there.
Their words have pierced me until I am black and blue, dripping with blood.
I’ve read enough scrolls about Chen Ziyu, the murdering waves and the forsaken beasts wandering
out the closeted home of China. I know enough. And with each impending second to the quarter moon I
set off, a deep, dark stone rolls into my stomach.
Why am I doing this? They ask me. You are stupid. You are crazy.
No.
I am a man serving my country. Can’t they understand? I’m doing this for them.
Yet still, they cluck and fuss.
“I’m leaving tomorrow. You can’t convince me not to.” I say instead, pushing up from my chair.
In an instant, my friend is after me, leaping up to bar the door, with that stubborn jut of his chin.
“You do not understand, Zheng He!”
“Yes, I do!” I shout back.
And for a moment, decades of friendship wipes away, and we are bristling.
Words surface on the tip of my tongue, and that coil of fiery anger lashes in my stomach as my
friend curls his fists.
But instead of throwing himself upon me, he stoops down and tenderly scoops up my hand. There
is a universe of pain in the deep brown well of his eyes as he stares up at me. “Return to us, my friend.
Come back home.”
There is nothing I can say.
“We’ll all miss you, Zheng He. Just promise me you won’t forget about us. That you’ll try to come
back. Please.”
“I-I will.”
Before I reach the door, I steal a glance behind my shoulder. My friend is still kneeling forlornly on
the cold, hard ground, eyes fixated on me, as if he couldn’t bear to see me go.
I turned and slammed the door behind me, before they could all see the bright tears glinting in my
eyes.
That couldn’t be the last thing they remembered about me.
Day 10 of the Voyage
For the 6th day in a row, the sea heaves beneath me. I clutch my stomach, cowering in the corner
of my den, as frigid waves slam into my ship, tossing us airborne
And then the drunken giants stop toying with us. They roar with fury and smash. The ship groans,
and terrible, discordant screams drown out the splinter of breaking wood.
Red-tinged water sloshes against my ankles, but the only noise I can hear is my prayer to Allah.
There is another thunk , and we careen into the air. Who’s steering the ship?
Against the howl of the wind and lash of salt, I crawl across the deck, flat across the wood.
The steering wheel is unmanned.
With a roar, ripped away into the icy night, I leap for the wildly spinning wheel.
I cling on all night and morning, until our ship bursts free from its watery prison, and charges
through the pale sunlight, battle-scarred, and red.