Veil of Mist over the Nanyang

The salty wind of the sea buffeted like coarse sandpaper against teenager Liu Congliang's cracked cheeks. He stood at the railing of Shunchang No. 3 ship – its paint peeling away, leaving blotches on the wood – gripping a worn-out sackcloth bundle tightly. His knuckles were ghostly white from squeezing it so hard. Every movement of the deck beneath his feet made his stomach churn violently, but this nausea paled compared to the heavy leaden weight pressing down on his chest: the dull thud as his father's shallow coffin landed in the grave just three days ago echoed still in his ears. "A Liang! Stop dawdling! What are you staring at? "Come on, lend a hand!" The hoarse voice cut through the wind. Liang snapped back to reality, as if pricked by a whip. He dashed towards the stern. The one calling him was Old Master Zhang, the ship's cook, an old man whose face was etched with creases like a dried orange peel. Straining under his breath, he hauled on a heavy wicker basket brimming with wet sea fish. Fish reek mixed pungently with the smell of sweat as it enveloped A Liang. He immediately bent down and summoned all his strength to help Old Master Zhang maneuver the heavy basket into place in its designated corner. His movements were clumsy, but there was no hint of slacking in them. "Thanks, kid," Old Master Zhang gasped, clapping a hand on A Liang's thin shoulder. The pat was rough but firm, "You're built like those bean sprouts, just not yet fully grown – soft as they are ashore. Look at these lotus root-shaped arms! One wave of the South Sea will swallow you whole if it gets to you! What's got your mind stuck on? Why be so miserable doing this kind of back-breaking work?" Liang lowered his head, staring at his frayed grass shoes, their edges worn smooth. His voice was muffled: "Back home... we lost the fields. Our father’s debts... need settling. Worked in town, heard there might be some opportunities down south..." He kept it simple; each word sounded like a pebble scraped out from under his skin. He didn't mention that his father had been forced to die by a powerful creditor, nor did he confess the redness and swelling of his mother's eyes. That was too painful for him to bear. "South Sea?" Sounding distant, A Liang only knew it meant there was somewhere to survive – or starve. Old Master Zhang’s misty eyes swept over A Liang briefly before settling in a pitying frown, "Heard correctly? The South Sea..." Suddenly, he spat out half of a tough, hard-crisp piece of mixed-grain pancake from his greasy apron pocket and pressed it into A Liang's hand. "...Here." "Pad your belly. There are rules on this ship: earn the food by working hard. "Keep your wits about you; don't stand around looking foolish waiting for orders – learn to look for work!" "It's fine, Old Man," A Liang nodded vigorously, his face still red from exertion and embarrassment. He carefully tucked the pancake into the deepest inner pocket of the thin cotton jacket he wore, hiding it like a hidden treasure. He treated it with reverence. It was a thin cake Sister Lin (Mama) had baked all night long for him; it was their family's only dry bread on the journey to the coast. He couldn't bear to eat something so precious. Honesty can sometimes be synonymous with clumsiness. He did not know, yet soon he would learn that this scene played out just here, perhaps a hundred yards off, behind one of the bulging eyes belonging to a lean man leaning against the main mast, was witnessed by a man whose gaze had already made contact. That sharp expulsion of air seemed disdainful; his hook-like eyes scanned A Liang with particular interest. The ship cut through waves in the turbid river mouth, heading towards the breakwater. Beyond were towering, dense jungle trees – giant, unbroken canopy layers that stretched layer upon layer and climbed wildly, forming a fearsome silhouette made of sheer, untamed nature. Roots and creepers twisted and tangled with massive boughs from what seemed like endless shades of deep green. The air was thick, wet, and oppressive as it hung heavy like an enveloping sheet of hot oilcloth. Inhaling felt viscous, carrying the distinct scent of damp earth – that unique blend of loam mixed with a potent sweetness, known to old sailors as noxious miasma (cacooge). Occasional sharp cries or strange animal calls cut through the jungle's oppressive gloom, sending chills down one’s spine. "Look! "We've reached the Ghost Forest Sea!" A young sailor pointed excitedly towards the shore, his voice carrying a fearful note laced with prideful awe. "Young Master Wang used to tell me you were all terrified of that place," Liang's young mate said, thinking aloud or perhaps just reporting common knowledge, "The elders say there are monsters like forest spirits and demons living way up in those trees. "They lure sailors with whispers, but it’s actually the fumes – disease-bearing miasma (ague) that can bolster a man from breathing too much of it." A sharp tang mixed with something sweet and floral hung heavy, unmentioned but understood by old seamen as deadly *jinou* mist. "Look," A Liang reflexively clutched his bundle tighter against his chest. The thin fabric offered no defense, yet he felt instinctively that perhaps it could shield him from the unseen forest spirits. He recalled how he had pulled down before leaving home; blind neighbor Auntie Chen's hand, trembling in fear, still echoed in his memory as she grabbed his own: "...Alright Liang... The South Sea is a good place to go. But that forest? It’s alive! Truly, truly it eats people. Remember: never stand out unnecessarily! Letting fools stand out can get you killed!" *The* young man had been called Young Ah or Little A Liang back home for his youth and fragility. A Liang saw her off in the distance, a figure as light of foot as she moved among the cargo heaps. He followed cautiously towards the deep end of the docks, where vast warehouses lined up like rows upon rows of grain silos, bustling with activity at the entrance to another building filled with goods. The air was thick with the scent of jute sacks, ropes, and mingled sweat. Sure enough, a crowd gathered near the warehouse doors. They clustered around an overseer – short-sleeved shirt rolled up sleeves, holding an account book, looking like he might be in charge. The overseer bellowed emphatically: "Unload the red rubies! One hundred jin per pack! Each bag is three copper coins!" As they were unloading a sack of... (or "What?" or "Where are you going?") He looked at those men's hardened arms – thick with muscle, bulging veins showing through. His own skinny forearms felt inadequate. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed into the crowd and let out an awkward shout, trying to match their postures: "Master... Master Zhang! I... can do it!" The overseer glanced at him, saw his slight frame. A cold laugh escaped him: "What kind of chick crawled out of the mud this time?" the overseer sneered, dismissing him. "You think you're strong enough for this? Little fool! Get your skinny arms in there or get lost!" A ripple went through the crowd. The surrounding laughter almost drowned out his humiliation as he felt his face flush red. But thoughts of his father's debts and his mother’s blind eyes made him straighten his spine despite the fear, lifting himself up slightly to speak calmly but with firm conviction: "I can work! I... my dad was a stonemason; I grew up helping carry rocks! I've done it since small. "I don't need much to eat, boss, you just look at how much you pay based on the heaviness of your workload." This almost ridiculous honesty seemed to catch the overseer off guard. A man nearby egged him on: "Master Wang (Overseer), this kid is simple, maybe a bit slow. But he's honest! Let him give it a try, for the love of God don't be scared by such an insignificant lad." The overseer squinted again and scrutinized A Liang carefully; perhaps noticing something different in his stubborn demeanor or simply due to labor shortages, he finally grew impatient and waved him off: "Alright already! Go get in line over there. I'm telling you beforehand, no more work means nothing! "If you can't manage it, pay for the damage yourself." (Implied payment detail). Standing around is pointless – learn to blend into the background. A Liang understood that letting certain fools stand out can get you killed. He turned his steps towards the young woman's retreat. The girl watched him turn and melted back into the vibrant chaos of the bustling market, leaving A Liang with a silent question hanging in the air.