Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 | Page 137

Day 70 of the Voyage
60 days have passed since the storm. 60 days. How many lives have been lost so far? There’s too
many to count.
I stay positive for my crew. We’ve stayed alive so far! The sky is so blue today, the sun so bright!
We are very lucky men!
The men laugh and pat me on the back. They don’t remark on this dangerous game of chance we
are playing. Instead, they say. This Zheng He is so cheerful!
How many of them are putting on a charade, too?
Suddenly, amid the aimless gossiping, the sound of a horn blasts through the air.
Men scurry everywhere, brawling for the telescope, peering into the distance.
What we see is indescribable.
Men and women in strips of clothing, move around, leading horses painted carefully black and
white. We gasp over the tall, golden domes, and the twisting, curving trees. We point at the bright clothing
and the wooden brown skin.
What is this new world? We whisper.
At first, when the arcs of white streak through the air, we applaud and jump on the spot, little
children. But when one of our men crumples to the floor, the atmosphere shifts.
Squeals turn into roars as I race to the fallen man, weaving between the furious crew. They roll
cannonballs across the ship, flexing sinewy muscles.
There is a sizzle, and a man prepares to light the cannon.
“Do not fire at them!” I yell as I wrap silken cloths around the groaning man. “We come in peace.
We just want to trade. We need a messenger to go to the docks of this island!”
Everyone stares numbly at me.
“Um. Yeah, sure. I’ll do it.” I mutter. I’m not sure if it’s a cold hand creeping up my spine, or just
a trickle of sweat. But it’s lingering there as I slide into the small rowboat.
Arrows target it, and I row furiously, ducking my head.
Once my boat knocks against wood, I stand up carefully and rest a foot on the wooden planks of
land. My arms are raised. My back is straight. My skin is cold without warmth of much clothing.
In a wave-like motion, the soldiers surge forwards, but a tiny soldier holds them back.
The soldiers hesitate and stare at the general as he jabs himself in the chest with a bony finger
I face him silently. Is he telling his men to retreat?
But he yells a string of gibberish and dives himself.
There is only the sound of blood pounding in my ears. I’m not going to fight. I won’t hurt him. I
can’t hurt him.
But when I open my eyes, it is just the rows of soldiers, frozen.
The small soldier is floundering in the waves. His fate is spelt out by the weight of his uniform, and
the salt clambering up his chin.
But no one attempts to rescue him. What could they do?
In the silence, broken by splashes, I hear screams again. The thundering shatter of wood. Silk and
porcelain lost in the howl of the wind.
I’m not quite sure what happened, until ice slams into my chest, and fists pound my back.
Somehow, the soldier is on my back, and I am dragging him to the docks. Isn’t he just a man with family as
well?
No one dares to fire.
Day 296
Allah has bestowed upon us a gift from heaven. A graceful mammal, tall, long-necked and orange,
with the tongue of a devil. We stroke it before we set sail. It is our good luck talisman.
Our ships are fuller than before, now, full of alien objects and animals. My room is stuffed too,
with little presents I picked for myself. Souvenirs.
We’ve turned back, and I can already see the Great Wall of China, winding in the distance. There’s
so much more out there. So many things we can see if we just open our eyes.
I sigh.
A man joins me by the moonlit sea. “Will you come back on a voyage again?” He asks me.
I think, and instead of black flags with skulls fluttering towards us. Instead of bloody waves and
broken bodies. Instead of fear, doubt, and only the hovering hope, I see the answer in the blazing stars.