The trip to China required a sea voyage. Yang was not fond of the sea.

At night, with every toss of the ocean, he remembered the warm shape of Maya beside him. The last time he was on a ship, she slept soundly in his arms or he in hers. Now, instead of slaving it on the hard wood, he was given a hammock, and instead of being lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of Maya’s breathing, he had the chaotic cacophony of sailors’ snores and chest heavy coughs.

The thin linen hammock swayed with the ocean, causing nausea to bubble in the pit of Yang’s stomach. The ship groaned, and through a crack in the upper deck, Yang could see the stars blinking at him. He would not think of Maya. She did not deserve his thoughts, his longing. She was a monster – like the rest of them. Like all of them. He would not be blinded by her kind again. By any kind. It was clear, so very clear that the only pure bloodline was that of the Chinese. They did not consume the blood of the fallen and feast on the flesh of their forefathers. They did not indulge in such barbaric practises. They were more than that. They were Chinese.

Yang would not be fooled by those below him ever again.

The journey was long and arduous. Yang was fed bread that was more rock than anything else, and water from a stale smelling leather pouch. He did his part, scrubbing the decks until his hands were burned raw with soap and his knees bruised blue. The most important thing of all, of course, was that Yang was with his people. Aboard the ship was a regiment of Chinese soldiers, dressed in imperial finery. They spoke to him in the tongue he thought was lost to him.

He did not miss their cautionary looks; it seemed wherever Yang would go, he would be haunted by scepticism and wariness. He rationalised it – he did spend a year in the clutches of the enemy. Their eyes always stopped at the short length of his hair. Sometimes, if they were older, they would snort derisively and turn away. Sometimes, if they were younger, they would shake their head. While shorter hair was convenient, it still pained Yang. He had shorn his hair regularly to blend in, and now amongst his own people, he was a stranger with short hair and no filial piety1.

The ship was called Yunnan; a Chinese war junk ship2 from Canton. To board, Yang and the others had to sit in small, closeted rowing boats and row into deep sea. The British would fire on sight at Chinese architecture. One of the rowing boats had floated off into the night, and the men were lost. Despite not having been acquainted with the soldiers, Yang still felt the loss as keenly as the others did. When they boarded Yunnan, Yang was greeted by the captain of the vessel, Jiang Hua Ren: a tall man with weathered, leathery skin and long black hair, who smelled faintly of sweat and sea. Jiang Hua Ren was a private but boastful man. He didn’t smile so much as smirk, and his brown eyes didn’t twinkle so much as gleam. He stroked the short beard on his chin that hung in a loose plait every time he engaged in deep thought, and always raised an eyebrow when someone spoke to him. Yang suspected it was because the gesture intimidated some – Jiang Hua Ren seemed like the kind of person who liked frightening others. “England!” the man had boomed when he had found out where castaway Yang hailed from. “We’ve just captured an English lord and his foremost henchman fleeing India – our spies assured us, he was most discrete in his arrival and departure. Admiral Guan Tian Pei2 will be most pleased,” the man grinned proudly, then raised an eyebrow and looked Yang in the eye. “What say you,” he said. “Any loyalty to England? Perhaps you know them?”

“None, sir,” Yang assured the captain but Jiang Hua Ren’s raised eyebrow never descended.

“So you say,” said Hua Ren grudgingly. “Perhaps you should visit them. All men enjoy the sight of home.”

Yang’s blood boiled at the implied sleight. He smiled tightly and refused to give the captain more bait. Whoever the English prisoners were, he had no desire to ever converse with them and he highly doubted he reminded them of their deranged home. Seeing them would force him to revisit those tormenting memories of his time in England, but no one seemed to care about that. They thought Yang enjoyed himself in the enemies’ lair, snacking on their fruits and sipping on their wines. Yang kept his hands behind his back so no one could see his fists clenched.

Zhang Feng Ting and his brothers had boarded with Yang. They kept to themselves once surrounded by other Chinese – suddenly hyperconscious of Yang’s westernisation. It hurt Yang – just a little – that they only stuck to him because he was the only familiar in a foreign land, and now that they were with their own again, Yang was the outcast, the strange thing, and they belonged. Yang took their cold shoulder to heart and returned the favour.

After falling into routine, Yang was once standing on deck, staring out into the sea. It heaved and sighed all around him, without a trace of land in sight, only empty, endless mist and grey. Li Liu Wen approached him: a man, younger than Yang, who brimmed with happiness. He exuded confidence and cheer with every bounce of a step he took, and had, as the cook in the Colingtons’ residence would say, ‘ideas above his station’. “I’m going to marry a fine lady,” Liu Wen told Yang, gazing into the grey horizon. “Her name is Ning Jia Jia – she’s the daughter to one of the wealthiest merchants in Shanghai. She’s beautiful beyond compare; her hair, blacker than the darkest night and her eyes the most exquisite shade of brown. Pale skin, rosy cheeks and,” Liu Wen laughed jovially. “A promising figure.”

Maya’s more beautiful, Yang thought instinctively, his mind wandering to the golden tint of Maya’s skin, the softness of her plump lips, the warmness of her eyes, the deep ebony hue and coconut scent of her hair. No one could compare to her – no. He would not think of her. In fact, Yang was certain Ning Jia Jia was infinitely more beautiful than Maya. Ning Jia Jia was Chinese. Maya was a monster. Ning Jia Jia had a tongue.

At that thought, Yang leaned over and vomited into the ocean, his stomach queasy and weak. That night, Isaiah haunted his dreams. Maya’s dedication to him, when she’d been force fed his own organ, threw him into consciousness along with the nauseating roll of the ship on the waves. That just proves it, Yang justified when he awoke, she ate him. She was just as bad as the rest of them – inclined to the same proclivities, and he would not be fooled. He had thought she’d done it because she cared for him. She obviously didn’t. She did it because she was made to, born to, like the other English and Indian slum.

Liu Wen and Yang became fast friends despite their differences. In his best moments, Yang could not help but compare himself to Liu Wen – who was taller, paler, handsomer, with longer hair and sharper eyes and a leaner figure. Yang slumped his shoulders when he walked, his knees and elbows black from menial work, his hands calloused and rough, had a scar stretching over his liver and an organ missing. Yang was nothing compared to Liu Wen – who was high born and could read. Yang felt woefully inadequate – a year and the best he could do was write his name in English in the sand – that and the name of a girl he’d rather forget.

He tried to forget her, but everything reminded him of her. She would cook for him in their small room in India. She would serve him rice and delicacies, and he would buy her brightly coloured saris to make her smile. Maya would wear them, and she’d look beautiful in them – she’d smile up at him as though he were her entire world and hold him tight in thanks, all the while him thinking she was the one he should be thanking.

For all of Liu Wen’s advantages, there was one thing Yang had the Liu Wen lusted after: England. Though Yang would have gladly given Liu Wen every memory he had of England, the young soldier still harboured a solid green envy. “What’s England like?” he asked, every morning, over and over again, standing over Yang as Yang pressed his brush to the ship’s deck.

“England is cold,” Yang replied. “It’s cold and dreary, and the sun never visits; their pallor grows sickly and white. As though they are dead.” And they are, Yang refrained from adding.

Liu Wen frowned; it wasn’t the answer he sought. He would take the answer and ruminate over it for some time before returning and asking another one that made loud, noble English laughs ring in Yang’s ears and diamonds flash before his eyes. “Are the womenfolk beautiful? Do they truly have eyes the colour of the skies and grass? What weapons do they fight with? What food do they consume? What does English sound like? Do you speak their tongue? What are their homes like?”

Yang gradually resented ever offering Liu Wen even a tidbit of information.

He would survive.

He would survive.

He would survive.

He whispered the mantra to himself beneath the breath, every time he bit into the hard bread; every time he swept the deck; every time the ship rocked on the angry waves; every time he stared into the horizon that never inched closer despite the flying days. And when he could not say it aloud to remind himself, he chanted it in his mind, every time Liu Wen asked another question; every time Hua Ren poked a barb at his year abroad; every time the soldiers cast him a doubtful look. He would survive – he had already lived through so much, what was a little more?

Some days were harder than others. Some days pulled at his muscles in exhaustion and tempted him to leap from the deck into the bottomless ocean. Some days, he ignored everything and pushed himself harder. Some days, he couldn’t crawl out of his hammock. Some days, he couldn’t get in.

But he survived.

They docked in Canton two months later – the sea was not kind to them, and when Yang climbed onto solid ground, he didn’t look back. He never would. He vowed to never step foot on a ship ever again. He thought briefly of Maya as the sun watched him from the skies above, and wondered if it shone on her the same way. He closed his eyes and inhaled, willing the pinch in his heart to disappear.

Yang’s hair had grown. He braided it down his neck like the soldiers did – his only shred of honour in his home, despite it being a falsehood.

Canton had changed. China had changed3; the place from his memories was just that – a memory. Only this time, he was not the only one who mourned. Standing on the port of Canton, gazing at the milling traders, inhaling the sweet fragrance of –

A sharp bang perforated the air4; a cannon ripped past Yang.

The port erupted into screams. “You’d do best to run, boy,” said Liu Wen, appearing behind him and slapping him on his back. “Or duck for cover.”

Liu Wen ran forth, collecting a bow gun from the border patrol. Yang glanced behind him at the large British vessel, his heart lurching at the sight at their proud flags. A Royal Navy Steamship stared Yang down, the man aboard rushing to ready their artillery5.

He would survive.

Yang broke into a run. A house, fifty feet in front of him, burst into flames. Yang ignored the rapid thrum of his heart and the pain jolting through his thighs; he forced himself to move faster. As familiar as the city was, it was stranger to him, a year and a war later. People shouted to one another – somewhere, in the throng of petrified Chinese, a child cried. People shoved desperately, rushing to safety and Yang struggled to stay on his feet. He knew if he fell, he’d be trampled to an early death.

Overhead, the sun blazed, and Yang felt his blood simmer in the heat. He would survive. He pushed forward, and ran without regard into the maze of homes and stalls; the familiar lines of Chinese hanzi6 beckoning to him. What was home, if it was only a pile of ash?

The streets were red; red lanterns hung from the traditional red painted homes. Inside the homes, families rushed to board up their windows and doors. Yang did not miss the nail marks already in the fine red wood. This was not the first time they had done this.

A man sat on a wobbly cart, wearing brown rags, his horse braying enthusiastically. Yang ran to him. “Help me,” he said to the farmer. The farmer gave him a long look before looking back at the chaos of Canton.

“Get on,” he agreed.

Yang didn’t need to be told twice. He leapt onto the cart and the horse trotted away. The farmer yelled profanity at the horse, but the old thing did not deign to listen. Yang stared at Canton – eclipsed in explosive horror. He pressed his hands to his ears to shun the screams of despair that ripped the air and shut his eyes.

An explosion sounded; a fume of smoke pleading to the sky with long fingers. The horse, finally conscious to the battle raging, giddied up.

A coldness settled over Yang despite the heat, and Yang wondered what he truly had come to home to.

1. In ancient China, long hair was considered a sign of filial piety – respect for your parents. A man with short hair was considered a dishonour to his family.

2. During the First Opium War, the Chinese Naval was at a severe disadvantage. Junk ships were built with the intention of warding off pirates and were most effective in close combat. They were not created for extended military purposes; the slow speed of junk ships and inferior weaponry made them an easy target for the British.

3. Admiral Guan Tian Pei commanded the Chinese Naval during the First Opium War. Under his leadership, he successfully expelled the British from Canton. Or so they believed.

4. The strategy of the Qing dynasty, was to defend against the British seizing Chinese territory. Due to their inferior infantry and their underestimation of the British capability, China quickly lost ground with the British and was unable to regain their lost cities; their ranks had been infiltrated. China was also engaged in a border war with India, which placed a strain on their troop deployment (hence Yang encountering Chinese troops in India. Yang did not encounter hostility in India as the story took place in Surat – west India, quite far from any border disagreements).

4. The British Fleet did pass Canton until June 1840 and then again in August 1841. However, during the early months of 1840, Canton endured minor skirmishes with the Royal Navy.

5. The British possessed superior ships, loaded with heavy weaponry – the most notable: the Congreve rocket - an explosive that allowed the British to fire far-range with little to no damage to their own ships.

6. Chinese word for Chinese characters.