Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 | Page 261

The Eighth Voyage
St.Paul's Co-educational College, Song, Yiding - 13
The sun was setting over the horizon. Warm, salty sea air energized the waves beneath the keel of a
massive treasure ship. The Treasure Ship. A moving island that pacifies even the raging seas, housing more
than three hundred sailors on board. It was the icon of the dynasty, leader of the Treasure Fleet.
Now was another cold evening on the top of the watchtower for Zheng He, the outstanding
commander of the Treasure Fleet. He stared ahead from the highest point of the Treasure Ship. Straining his
eyesight to its extreme, all that he could see was still the deep blue, stretching over the boundaries of the
Earth itself. He sighed. It had been days without aim. The boredom and fright of the seas never paid off
even when the Fleet brought about glory.
“I never should’ve come to this hellish eighth voyage,” he thought. Zheng He was old now. Too weak
for sea voyages. But on the other hand, he knew what he came for. He was a prominent maritime
adventurer. The sea itself chose him. The gentle rocking in the open oceans always reminded him of the soft
swing of a cradle. And the salty breeze often wreathed him in a unique aroma that old sailors call home. He
achieved for the Ming dynasty fame and glory. He even made ties with foreign countries and served two
successive generations of emperors.
Yet he felt as if he was lacking something. He knew his name would last forever, but he still had this
nagging sensation that his life was too empty, and it should be something more.
He surveyed the ocean again. Suddenly, he saw it. Like a shadow of the Earth itself, lying on the
horizon was a huge storm. Lightning crackled and thunder bellowed, sending chilly air racing past the
foremast of the Treasure Ship. The storm was black as squid ink and coming. Fast.
Zheng He commanded calmly, “Lower the sails! All sailors, get below deck!”
Quickly, the order was spread from one ship to another, and soon, the whole Treasure Fleet was
prepared for the upcoming tempest. Zheng He took his time to get down from the watchtower. He stole a
look at the spectacular sight of the fleet comprising over two hundred ships. The reflection of the wintry
seas, that lovely pink of the sun kissing the hull… The beauty of the Treasure Fleet and the valuables it
contained could only be described as transcendent.
*****
The winds came faster and stronger than Zheng He had anticipated. Soon the ships were literally being
tossed on the billows.
Only Zheng He and a few sailors were remaining on the deck of the Treasure Ship now. The wind was
piercing the skin of Zheng He, the icy chill sending a shiver down to his heart. Sea foams were flying
everywhere, and in the scream of the storm, Zheng He’s commands could barely be heard. The ship
shuddered and fell, followed by a big splash into the sea. BOOM. Zheng He held desperately onto a huge
pillar. Another massive wave slapped onto the side of the ship, sending it swerving dangerously to one side.
Zheng He slid across the slippery deck and barked out, “Everyone get below now! This storm is too
powerful for us to bear!” The sailors couldn’t hear him. The wind was too strong. Zheng He cursed under
his breath. Old age was draining him. He waved frantically for them to move into the cabins. A big splash
from the ocean sent him a mouthful of the filthy, icy water. He spat it out with a cough.
The ship shook dangerously again. Zheng He shuddered. He squinted through the flying water droplets
to locate the entrance of his cabin. It was at the other end of the desk. Then the fire burning bright in his
cabin reminded him of something.
He called to his mind that fateful night, in his family’s little house steeped in Islamic religion. It was a
happy summer’s eve, destroyed by bloodshed. That night the Ming emperor had decided to send an army of
soldiers to wipe out remaining rebels in Yunnan, including Zheng He’s family. The soldiers were cruel.
They burnt down their house and the other villages as well, the fire dancing joyously at the death of a
thousand souls. He could still vividly recall the look in his father’s eyes when they parted through the wall of
fire. His father’s expression told him everything he needed to do in life. The sympathy, the loneliness, the
grief, the craving. The craving for a better world. The craving for his son to do what he didn’t, to fulfill his
lifelong dream. To devote his soul and serve the one god Allah. And since then, that dream had become
Zheng He’s. He was eleven back then. His father sacrificed himself to save the rest of the family.
A sharp turn of the Treasure Ship reminded him of reality. Zheng He didn’t bother to move. The sea
was always kind to him. He started to wonder what he’d be remembered as. A great diplomat? The first