In the Sea of Stars

1990, November 19:

There would be an old, dying man standing against the stream of the crowded street. Slowly eroding, carried away by the chaos. The old man’s eyes would wander into the sunset that melted into the city, his eyes ordinary, tired and lonely. And when he finally leaves the world, he will become only a small wisp of dust that will be stepped into the ground. There wouldn’t be any flowers nor would there be the smoke of an incense, there wouldn't be a small plate of fruit nor would there be the dribble of alcohol and tears. His name would wither away leaving an authorless story that no one would read. Even the unfortunate headstone that he tainted would become lonely. The old man’s last wish would only be for someone to mourn for him.

1931, December 20:

It's been exactly 13 years since he found them. When he opened his toothless mouth and his gleaming obsidian eyes. Today, the family gathered around the small splintered dinner table in the darkness. There was a small tart and one egg that was split in two in the center of the table. Mounted on the tart was a small burning match, it radiated with the festive light of humble happiness. The boy stood in the gaze and smiles of his family as he cried tears of gratitude. They started to sing. The boys' little brother and sister sang the fastest, ready to snatch the pieces of eggs the moment they finished singing. While the boy sang with the brightest smile in the world. That night the usually cloudy sky was filled with stars.

1935, October 30:

From his vantage point, dozens of heads looked up at the professor and down at their notebooks, scratching away. It reminded him of the sea, how the waves would rise and fall, taking a bit of the vast blue sky with it. The sound of the waves blended into the school bell and when he opened his eyes the corridors were already filled with a congested river of people.

As the sun floated on the surface of the sea, the wind caressed his hair. He carefully placed “The China Herald” on a smooth suitcase-sized rock. He slowly sat in the middle of the page, just below the large bold writing that had pronounced Mao Ze Dong the leader of the Gongchandang (1). He watched as the water in the distance would gain life and rise into a wave. They dashed desperately toward the shore, smashing into the barnacles a couple of meters below him. One wave after the other, their short lives were already forgotten by the world.

(1): The Chinese Communist Party, commonly known as CCP.

1936, August 19:

The men wearing green knocked on his door. After handing him an envelope and a small sum of money, he was given one month to pack his bags and say his goodbyes to his family. He was joining the Twenty-Ninth Route Army (2), in Beijing, 1200 kilometers away from his family in Shanghai. 

(2): The 29th Route Army of the Chinese Revolutionary Army (NRA) was the only Chinese army defending Beiping-Tianjin at the time. This formation type was later discarded.

1936, September 8:

They had come earlier than promised. The blue sky stretched across the heads of thousands of young men lined up to enter military trucks. The man squeezed into the vehicle. Body against body, it felt as if even the metal underneath his feet was melting. 

As the truck tumbled on rough dirt paths, the people inside shook violently. The last time he had seen the sky seemed like a distant memory, his legs were giving out under every small shake. When the doors finally opened, the light breeze of fresh air hit the people inside like a wall, some immediately began puking, and many collapsed onto the grass. As the blades of grass tickled his neck he stared at the sky. The blue sky had turned dark and there were stars above.

1937, July 28:

The Japanese attack was relentless, 23 days of gruesome gunfire ended with the death of his close comrades. The Twenty-Ninth Route had dwindled. A tear-filled retreat was instructed by the high-ups, and many men stayed behind as sacrificial cover, while others were dragged through the mud, screaming. The retreat had left a trail of red and regrets.

1937, December 25:

It was death that he smelt in the air, it had crept up from under his door. He thought himself already numb to the scent of death. Yet the stench of it, clambering up, was so thick it was nauseating. He felt the creases in his clothes lightly getting tugged by the black and white hands of impermanence (3). Where death was thickest, the wind ruffled at the corner of the newspaper on his doorstep. The front page read: The Nanjing Massacre (4). His family was dead. His solace had shriveled into nothing but desperate prayers.

(3): The black and white hands of impermanence is a reference to Chinese folklore. The white and black impermanence is a pair of death gods in Chinese folklore.

(4): Shanghai and Nanjing are adjacent to each other. The Shanghai frontlines fell, resulting in the Nanjing Massacre. The main character’s family lived in Shanghai.

1950, December 20:

It’s been thirteen years since they left. Sorrow had chained itself around his ankles and regret was attached to it like a leg-iron ball. Memories of violence buried itself underneath his weathering jacket and denial wrapped itself around his eyes and into a tight knot pressing against the back of his head. His happy memories only cut deeper into his skin, scars and wrinkles. His heavy body, decorated with the ornaments of grief, dragged over the fissures in the pavement, tottering down the street. He lived here for 12 years. He knew no one and no one knew him. 

1964, March 16:

He shuffled down the street, as he did every day, unchanging. His arm grazed the cold air flowing from an alley commonly ignored. A desperate scream suddenly shattered the man’s thoughts and the shadow in the lightless alley started to stir. Ignoring it, the man attempted to step forward. But the man felt the iron ball of regret tugging at his ankles. He saw the lifeless bodies of his family and comrades lay face down in a pool of crimson mud, their mouths open in the shape of his name. He turned back and began to advance prudently into the alley. 

1964, March 16:

His life changed when his house became a classroom, when he walked toward that scream. The gate of the darkness had opened into a world of poverty, suffering and starvation. He saw the thin bony arms of a filthy boy being yanked by the mantou (5) man. The boy was quivering and begging, while the man slapped him across the face. On the ground not far away, in a small puddle, was a dirty mantou. The man paid for the mantou and for the life of the young beggar. 

(5): Mantou is a traditional Chinese bun. 

1964, March 17:

When he passed the alleyway today, the bruised homeless boy and two other boys were standing at the entrance, where the sun just barely kissed their pale muddy skin. They dropped onto their knees and begged him to be their teacher. That was the day he found the keys to his chains. That day his concealed plea for penance, for another family, was answered by heaven. That day the man paid for pencils and notebooks, and for the future of a group of young kids.

1966, December 20:

The small apartment had a wonderful scent today. It’s the teacher's birthday. The students eagerly drag the upside-down buckets into an arch around the teacher, smiles dominating the visage of everybody. The teacher was standing under the flickering lightbulb, holding his hands behind his back. From between his legs, the students could easily see the poorly hidden paper bag. The teacher crouched down and placed the paper bag on the floor in front of him. He takes out a bag of beautiful brown tea eggs and a box of tarts. Splitting it between his students and leaving none for himself. Some immediately wolfed down the food, while others carefully ate and savoured each bite with expressive pleasure, contorting their body into the most unnatural of positions. He watched them with a bright smile.

That night when he went to bed, he was hungry but happy. He started to hum happily to himself under the stars above.

1990, November 19:

Today was the first time in ten years that everyone was together again after they graduated and lived a life of independence. The fourteen of them stood in an arch around the pristine headstone, the small plate of fresh fruit. Weaving between their fingers and hair was the smoke of incense. At their feet, hitting the concrete lightly, was the dribble of tears.

When he left the world, his fear of being forgotten was swept away by the waves and by the tears of his students. The man floated with the incense into the glittering night sky.

The End.