Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 | Page 46

A Shrill Cry
Dulwich College Beijing, Trivedi, Suvarn - 11
A shrill cry echoes throughout the sleeping chambers and wakes me up.
Footsteps rapidly rush down the corridors of the ship, jostling my bunk from side to side.
I hastily sit up in confusion and nick my ear on the sharp edge of the bunk, unsteadily gawking at the chaos
that is ensuing through the ship. I rush out of my room and glance around at the rusted wood and metal
corridors. Officers suited in green stand blatantly at either end of the hallway, commanding orders and
harshly ushering workers up the stairs and onto the main deck. Workers are racing down the corridors,
hurriedly packing their little amount of belonging and wearing their special gear, the ones used in an
onboard emergency. I immediately realize what the commotion is.
The ship is being attacked.
I swivel around and glance at the array of battle gear set out on the side table of the room, laid out next to
the painted wood picture of my mother. I pick the painting up, gazing at her eyes through the smeared
wood and I know I must go on and into battle, for his sake. She came from an extremely poverty-ridden
family and had chosen to abandon me for money. My father however, is onboard the ship with me working
as an entertainer for the luxury of Zheng He, the captain of the ship. He is our family’s only source of
money.
Pain jolts down my back. An official is standing by my dorm and whipping me with a wooden stick, yelling
at me for my lack of speed. I promptly grab my red and white gear off the cracked and splintered surface of
the side table and suit up ready for what is about to happen.
I step out into the outer hallway and see that it is completely empty. Sounds of heavy footsteps and the
lugging of weapons means that preparation of battle has already begun. Hurriedly, I run down the corridor
and up the rickety stairs to the main deck, as I know I must succeed in battle. Rumors and tales of soldiers
being viciously beaten after being cowards in battle have been passed among the soldiers. As I nervously
survey the turmoil that is taking place upstairs, I reluctantly climb up and into the weaponry room to pick
up my weapons: a simple dagger and a sword. A porthole sits on the rusted wall behind me and shows a
sight beyond belief; the Manchurian’s ship, almost twice the size of ours, resting upon the water next to us
no more than 300 feet away.
A sudden blow rattles the ship, shaking the worn-out walls. On spur of the moment, I rush up to the main
deck and wield my sword. The attack has begun.
In orderly chaos, the full force of the fleet military charges towards the opposing force and creates a sound as
loud as an explosion from a cannon. As I run across the wooden floor, something catches my attention,
lurking in the corner of my eye. A dark, almost distinguishable figure is climbing down the rear stairs of the
ship, cautiously disappearing from view behind the wooden barrier that separates the opening of the stairs
and the main deck; I am aghast. Not fighting in battle is as bad as killing the captain in this ship. I sneak
quick glances around me, and then slowly back up away from the battle and towards the stairs.
Crouched, the ringing and concurring sound of outraged war cries and the killing of men drowns out my
footsteps as I discreetly walk over the patterned floor, filled with paintings of Chinese women and designs
which guide me to the stairs.
Taking a deep breath, I exit the main deck and take slow steps down the stairs.
The sound of footsteps echo throughout the chamber and continue echoing as the figure walks just a few
meters in front of me. The caved-in walls of the room seem to stare down at me as I tiptoe past the
intricately designed walls, careful not to make the wooden floorboards creak. I am in awe of the figure,
knowing the bravery or stupidity he has to leave the battle and go back into the ship. But then again, I am
too.
Abruptly, he pauses at the end of the corridor in front of the pantry, where the ship’s monthly and
sometimes yearly food supply is stored, an essential element to the coordination of the ship. He swivels
around, facing the open door of the pantry and darts inside, disappearing inside as quickly as he had gone
down the stairs. I gasp. Why is he in there and what could he possibly be doing?
Unanticipatedly, a heavy wave of footsteps passes over the roof creating a loud, deep noise which
unexpectedly startles me and knocks me over into the corner of the corridor.
I freeze. A rustling sound is coming through the open door of the pantry and deep, low grunts which seem
to be coming from the figure which I can now distinguish as a sleek-bodied man, with lengthy legs and a
slight limp in his right foot, as I can only see the back side of his body. He cautiously looks around the
pantry, and then slowly reaches out to pick up a single biscuit, cocking his head and examining it carefully.