We Could Not See the Stars

by Elizabeth Wong

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Han was contemplative. Nothing that he had seen so far answered his questions about where his mama and he came from. Who they were. He was sad for his mama, and for himself, for not only did he not know her, he didn't even know the person whom she had become. And then, what of the people that led to him? His mama's father, his mama's mother, his mama's father's father, his mama's father's mother - the list went on and on, the people he did not know, the stories they had not told him, the names that they had lost. 'No people, only ghosts here,' he whispered.

Han's uneventful life in a sleepy fishing village is disturbed when a strange man arrives, asking questions about Han's mother. Han doesn't trust Mr Ng, but his cousin Chong Meng is impressed with the stories of his travels and tales of a golden tower. Together they steal the only thing Han has left to remember his mother by, before disappearing.

On a faraway island, across the great Peninsula and across the seas, the forest of Suriyang is cursed. Wander in and you will return without your memories. Professor Toh has been researching the forest of Suriyang for years. He believes that the forest hides something that does not wish to be discovered. An ancient civilization. A mysterious golden tower.

Chong Meng is tangled up in the professor's plans to discover the truth about Suriyang. Han travels the breadth of the Peninsula to find his cousin before it is too late. How much will Han sacrifice to discover who he really is?

Release date: July 8, 2021

Publisher: John Murray Press

Print pages: 336

Sample

In silence, they waited for fish to appear in their nets, but none did. The salty sea heat stuck to the pores of their skin. Through the makeshift roof of old fishing nets came the piercing light of the afternoon and, along with it, shadows that stippled their limbs. So hot today, hot until can die, as their ah-ma would say.

‘Very hot.’ Lim Chong Meng, son and heir to the Lim Fishing Company, nodded.

No fish in the river mouth – what you expect lah? his cousin Tan Yong Han thought. Water stagnant here, never move wan, and the river silt blooms in clouds. Only the small kecik-kecik fish come here to hide. Waste of time. But he kept silent. Chong Meng would never listen to him, anyway. Instead Han said, ‘Yah lor, so hot, no fish in the nets somemore. Let’s go back.’

‘You boss or I boss? Just now I heard a big shoal of mackerel swimming here. Clear like anything only. Heard their beating fins, their hearts. You wait and then you see.’

Han fed one end of the net into the water. The buoy made a gentle plop, then the weights, before the current pulled the sleepy net into a wall, its whiteness blooming in the darkness of the water. The rope chafed against his hands, tugging, wanting to drag him into the spills of the net, but he held strong, and looped the other end of the rope onto the boat.

Each of them had a smoke and a pee, as if both activities were in a combination set menu: Combo A – one smoke, one pee. Combo B – one yawn, one swear word, one smoke. At the back of the boat, the worker at the steering wheel snored, his head in his hands. Some time passed. They pulled the closest buoy and its nets back up onto the deck. Mostly chau hu: smelly fish that were not for eating and destined for fertiliser. Some prawns, but not many. The prawns twitched frantically as Han held them up in the sunlight, peering through their translucence. There were other inedible fish: a jellyfish, small eels, a puffer fish, two starfish and what looked like a tiny shark, but was likely a marine catfish. Han dropped them into a bucket for discards, where squid ink swished. There was even a cluster of fish eggs. He scooped up the little translucent blobs with dark centres like eyes and felt them watching him. Not fish, not yet. He let them slip back into the sea. Nothing in the nets that would have brought them money. The workers’ 30 per cent cut of zero was still a big fat zero.

‘Next time sure got mackerel wan,’ Chong Meng said. ‘Throw the nets in again.’

Han stared in the direction of land and wondered what Ah-ma would have cooked for dinner. Rice, a splash of soy sauce, fried anchovies and steamed bayam.

‘Not going too far out,’ his uncle, the tauke Mr Lim, had told him that morning. ‘Easy, easy day. In fact, only you and one other worker need to go out to join Chong Meng. Take the coastal boat.’

Chong Meng leading the boat? His cousin was never good at spotting fish. Bad luck Chong Meng, the other workers whispered. Suay, very suay – fish-cursed, they said quietly, so that the boss’s son would not hear. But the coastal boat had advantages. They would return to shore mid-afternoon before it got too hot. There was time to take on an evening shift of washing dishes at Song Kee restaurant. And Han knew that the last deep-sea boat came back half-empty because of the winds sweeping in from the Boatbreaker Seas. Half the profits, half the pay.

As they waited, Chong Meng said, ‘You know yesterday right, I was at Boon Chee restaurant, eat dinner like normal only lor. But then, I met this Mr Ng from the capital. Very confident man. He even shouted at the captain taking orders at the restaurant last night: this food is terrible, your vegetables are too soggy like anything only! Why am I paying for this? My mother also can cook better.’ Chong Meng laughed, and the rocking of the boat rose with his laughter. ‘So rude, can you imagine? Somemore hor if you see his right hand, there are two big gold rings! Big-big wan! Bigger than my father’s ring! Then on his left hand leh? Big gold Rolex somemore! I asked this Mr Ng, “Why someone like you come here? What is there in this small village?”’

What was there in this small village?

In their evenings, they lingered in the parking lot of the former Golden Star cinema. The last rays of sunlight flared across their motorcycles as they smoked their cigarettes, and the dust clouds from the main road billowed around them. Sometimes they would race from Golden Star to Liu’s prawn farms on the other side of the village, and back again. Han’s Honda C70 was almost as old as he was, so he watched as others sped away.

As the dust ebbed into the muggy night, and the warm sea breeze rushed through their clothes, inevitably they found themselves in either Coconut Flower or Boon Chee, both solidly run restaurants, chosen each night on the performance of their air-conditioning units. They would have beers, Marmite chicken, razor clams in garlic and stir-fry sweet potato leaves. Their armpits would always be sticky. If they were at Boon Chee, they would watch football matches that were showing on the twenty-year-old Sony TV that hung over the entrance, next to Laughing Buddha looking down at them. ‘Eh, boss, boss, more beer, peanuts also, why like that so slow?’ Chong Meng would holler, and the workers would scurry.

By the time Han got home, Father and Ah-ma would be watching a serial drama, maybe a love story, or a love scandal, or both, with Father giving the TV a sharp hit to the side to make it work. On the altar, Mazu and Mama’s spade watched over Father, Ah-ma and Han. Father would head to bed first, but spend most of the night awake because of his back. Ah-ma would be next to her room, and Han last, unrolling his mattress in the corner of the living room.

Han was not sure how to explain this to Chong Meng, who in any case, was not looking for any answers but his own.

That afternoon, with their fishless nets, they half listened to the chattering radio: now an upbeat hit from one of the cap­ital’s many pop stars, now the news of the Peninsula, now an advert – a woman enthusing over the pleasures of a soap that could wash off even tough stains without the use of hot water. Only 11.99 at your nearest supermarket, she added. If you buy two before the first of the— but she never got the chance to finish, for she was interrupted by the local frequency: Storm, from west, coming in quickly.

There was the heat of the languid afternoon, and then, on the far side of the horizon, from the Boatbreaker Seas where the sea touched the sky, there was a deep, funeral-white blankness, and a roar arose from somewhere that was yet to be named, a crushing beginning of things. Nothing existed in the white static as it erased everything in its path, taking with it islands and calm heat and radio chatter. Storm, storm from west, watch out, storm.

‘Maybe fifteen minutes before it gets here,’ Chong Meng said. ‘Pull the nets, get ready to go!’

They hauled the nets into the boat as fast as they could. Their hands were sore as the ropes tumbled in wet and buoys whipped through the air. Now the mangrove swamp that lay across the estuary like a protective hand was gone, swallowed into the storm as if it had never existed. The winds grew in speed: first a timid breeze poking at the edges of their boat, then increasingly rough, rocking them from side to side.

A few minutes later, the large gaping mouth of the estuary was gone too, swallowed into the storm. Stronger winds followed, pummelling the fragile frame of the boat, and their bodies juddered as the patchwork of balau planks strained at the joints. ‘Only the best quality I give you wan,’ the boatyard builder had said, but everyone knew that was a lie, that the balau planks were scavenged wood, junk from some shipwreck found washed up in the roots of mangrove trees, or tangled in fishing nets like drowned women.

‘Go back now, to the docks! Go!’ Chong Meng shouted to the worker at the steering wheel. The first drops of rain began to land.

Did the worker hear? What was that man’s name again? For one long stretched moment – a chant exhaled in a single breath, a cat mewling into the night – their limbs were petrified stillness, captured in flashes of lightning as nothing moved, and the roar of the storm enveloped the small boat. Their feet felt the planks underneath them but nothing moved in that moment.

‘Yes, boss,’ came the desultory reply.

Now the rain fell in large stoney drops, striking their flesh, and the once-flat sea burst open. Waves exploded on the side of the boat like firecrackers on the New Year. Bang! Bang! Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang! The sky sparked.

‘Eh you, what you doing back there? Fai di lah! Faster!’ Chong Meng shouted to the engines. He jumped to the back of the boat. ‘Oi, bodoh ah? Stupid! Cannot listen ah?’

A meagre roar escaped from the engines. Vroom-vroom, the engine said, unhurriedly, even as more water poured onto the boat, from the sea, from the sky, everywhere; their ankles drowning.

The boat rocked its way back up the estuary. The waves came at them fast, forcing the boat to turn sideways, and then pushing the sides of the boat. The bow was tipped high into the sky, and in the next moment, dived down low so far that they grabbed whatever they could to stop from falling into the sea. The deck disappeared beneath their feet, and their bodies lurched like jiang shis.

If the boat capsized here, who would say prayers for their bodies? Trapped between the river and the open sea, a dirty, lazy place. And, more importantly, if Han was gone, who would feed Ah-ma and Father?

‘Turn, turn! Kai yau!’ Chong Meng shouted.

The engine gave another roar. There was a burst of energy from the boat. Vroom-vroom-VROOM. The unnamed worker at the back swung his entire weight at the wheel to turn the bow so it faced the waves straight on. Another burst of energy, and suddenly they were striding through the water, cutting each fresh wave with confidence.

The shoreline approached, lined by hundreds of docks. Here, even more large fishing trawlers and small two-man sampans were tethered. They banged loudly at the shock-absorbing tyres and drums that lined the docks, usually an auspicious sign of welcome, but now an early warning as the waves rushed in from the storm and rolled all the way up the estuary.

The docks of the Lim Fishing Company appeared in front of them, where a land man was already waiting. Han threw the guiding ropes to the man, who pulled the boat in, jostling them into position against the old tyre bumpers, before both ends of the boat were tethered to the posts. Their meagre catch was forgotten.

‘Faster cover!’ Chong Meng instructed, even as they knew what to do, stretching a thick grey tarp around the boat. After the last corner was tied down, the storm reached the docks of the Lim Fishing Company. Dark rain beat down their eyes and ears. They ran into the warehouse, their faces slick with wetness. A semi-stray dog opened an eye at them as they sloshed in, but immediately went back to sleep among the thunder and lightning.

The sorting workers were long gone, the concrete floor had been hosed down earlier and was now dry, Mr Lim the tauke himself was back in his home, and the warehouse and docks of Lim Fishing Company were silent. The concrete floor was cold. Winds whipped into the exposed warehouse, and its temporary inhabitants grew colder, wetter.

Outside, chewed lollipop sticks, empty packets of Twisties and Magnum wrappers bopped around in the rushing water of the road. A lone motorcycle leaned awkwardly in a pothole, riderless, abandoned. Engine’s underwater, Han thought. Who would be so stupid to be riding in this rain?

He changed out of his wet clothes into a spare T-shirt and pair of trousers that his ah-ma made him take so that he would not always smell of fish. His feet were wrinkled from the water. He collapsed into a heap of fishing nets, the rain falling in heavy drops across the corrugated iron roof. The great, incessant roar filled his ears, washing out remnant noises of everything else: breathing, barking, sleeping, sighing, squeaking. He felt the noise as if it was pressing his chest, drowning his ears, until he was a small, cold fleck, alone in the barren warehouse. He brought up his weary knees closer to his face, trying to find the gentle echoes of his own heartbeat; the calm of a baby in his mother’s womb.

Chong Meng was already sprawled out on the pile of fishing nets next to Han’s. As if on instinct, he opened his eyes sleepily. ‘I want to go to the capital,’ he mumbled. ‘Once I went to the capital’s port. People everywhere, people mountain, people sea, crowding the streets. So difficult to walk around, and hard to breathe. Imagine, seeing a person once in your life and never seeing them again. I want to go to Bawahsiang, to the Eastern Port, all these places we heard of only. Only hear, never go.’

He closed his eyes fractionally, then lifted his lids again. ‘Eh, that Mr Ng told me this story. Don’t know whether true wan or not. But you must promise not to tell anyone. Somewhere far away, there was a tower, he said.’

Imagine that you are walking through a forest in the dark. You step over the tree roots, with mud and leeches riding up the sides of your legs, and outstretched branches brushing your arms. Suddenly, the ground falls away and there, in front of you, a perfectly circular hole emerges in the ground, like the deep nostril of a ghost. The hole so large that you can’t see what is on the other side, and you wonder if the hole ever ends. Perhaps all the land in this world drops off a cliff edge, down-down into the ghost’s deep nostril, where there is no light at the start nor at the end.

Then you see something in the distance. At first, you think that your eyes have tricked you. There is no light here, you think, it’s all dark, it’s all same-same only, same-same for a man who cannot see, same-same in the deep nostril of the ghost, no start, no end. Yet your eyes insist that this is something new. This is different. Dark on dark, a mountain of black rock rises from the large hole.

You never knew that different types of darkness existed before, yet here these shadows exhibit themselves to you, like a light show, except in inverse: A dark show, you think to yourself. Against the canvas of emptiness, the outline of this mountain can just be seen, conical in shape, with smooth sides that gently roll off its peak.

Here, too, in this same-same darkness, on this same-same mountain, right at its peak, yet another object reveals itself. Is that a lighter shade of darkness, a different type of darkness? You cannot be sure; all colours are relative and, right now, you can only explain what you are seeing in the context of the overwhelming darkness. For this object that you are seeing, in the hole where there is no light, is a golden tower.

You cannot understand how you are seeing a golden tower in this dark-on-dark world, where every object is as dark as the stretched-out emptiness of the empty sky without stars. This must just be another shade of black, you think, and for some reason, your mind interprets the colour as golden. Bright, brilliant, dazzling, shining like a star against the long night!

When you turn your head away, the brightness of the golden tower dissolves back into the ancient darkness, and reappears when you look at it directly. What is this – a trick of light? You have never seen a tower like this before. How could you even begin to describe what you are seeing? This symmetrical structure that bends away from you in perfect circularity, the smoothness of its walls that contain no visible markings, no windows, no joints, and most importantly, no top. For the top of the tower cannot be seen; the tower continues to climb high into the night, where it disappears. There is no end, you think. Only a sense of everything beginning: here, start, go. The golden tower sings a promise to you, that the darkness is limited, temporary.

You can see a long, thin line in front of you. There is a bridge that connects you to the tower. You place one foot on the line, then another, then another. The darkness of the hole rises up around you, like noxious fumes from floating rubbish. You start choking. Your mind wants to shut down, to reduce itself to a state of nothingness, to join this darkness. You can no longer see your feet or your fingers, or even the bridge itself. You lift up your left leg to test if you can do so, and your muscles twitch and your leg feels like it has moved, although you are not sure.

You say a few words out loud to remind yourself that you exist in this place. ‘Hello, I am here, I exist,’ you say, in the most insistent voice you have, feeling small as you do so. You expected your voice to echo in the massive cavern that is the hole, but it does not.

Instead, there is silence. I don’t mean that the place is silent; rather, it is as if the noise has been sucked from the surroundings, leaving a vacuum. All around you there is a weight, a burden of silence that has been pressed onto you. There has been a death, you think, for no place is ever this silent, except at a funeral.

And because nothing has prepared you for this, because you live in a world of sound, you constantly expect to hear something, as if all this is a big joke and, sooner or later, the person-in-charge will let you in on it. But you don’t hear anything. You continue not hearing anything. For there is nothing to be heard. This is a place of same-same darkness; this is the dark nostril of a ghost. There is no light here, even as the golden tower shines before you.

A door stands at the end of the bridge. It is the door to the golden tower. You push it open.

When you enter the tower, it is as if you have always been in the tower, as if you never left. As if you lived there your entire life, and everything that happened outside the tower was just a dream.

Did Chong Meng tell Han the story of the tower that day? He was not sure – the memory felt second-hand, as if Han was remembering a memory of a memory. Perhaps he had ori­ginally read the story in a book and dreamt it into the sequence of events on that day. Perhaps someone else had told him the story; but the memory was trapped there, an unyielding knot in that day’s weave.

The next morning, Han woke up shivering, even as the warmth of the sun flooded his nest of fishing nets. Chong Meng had already left for home. A warm mist clung low to the ground, like the persistent exhale of an engine. Somewhere in the estuary, early morning trawlers sputtered out fumes as they headed to sea. Han rode home on the Honda C70. Father was awake, watching a morning talk show on the TV, sitting in his favourite red-blue-white rubber string chair, on which he was slumped low, resting his feet on the extended footrest. The ceiling fan lurched in slow loops, as if unclear on what to do next.

If not for Han’s company, Father would sit in front of his TV or his radio all day, listening to never-ending bad news that he had no connection to and had no power to change. On and on the newsreader intoned: Corrupt politicians in the capital. Declining trade from the Eastern Port. Problems brought by immigrants from the Desert of Birds. The latest storm coming in from the Boatbreaker Seas. Volcanic eruptions in the Hei-san archipelago.

‘Rain last night, got stuck in the warehouse,’ Han told Father. ‘How are you feeling now?’

Father nodded. ‘Better. I think it’s the new medicine. My back is no longer so painful. Maybe I can go back out to sea next week. See what the doctor say.’

‘Where’s Ah-ma?’

‘Still sleeping. Last afternoon she worked too hard on the garden, planting kangkung and chilli. Seventy-five-year-old woman gets tired easily wan you know. When I was small, she used to work eighteen hours a day. Sell kuih door to door with her baskets, grow vegetables, raise chickens. Now, just two hours in the garden and like that also she tired already,’ Father said.

Han nodded. These were stories he had heard many times before.

They went for their usual Sunday breakfast in Kopitiam Liong, where, on plastic stools, conversations of the people of Kampung Seng unfolded.

‘Eh, you going to the temple tonight ah? I heard they are putting up new lanterns woh.’

‘My daughter-in-law is so dirty and so lazy wan. Only one month she moved into my house, already I cannot stand her. If not for my son I surely would have kicked her out already loh! Put plates everywhere, never wash up, somemore expect me to cook dinner. What you think I am, maid ah? She should be cooking dinner for me.’

‘Doctor said I need new medicine for my stomach. She said this one not strong enough, no wonder I keep vomiting after I eat food. Ai-yah, old like that, all parts break down. Haha!’

Han ordered a kopi-O and Father a kopi-C. They slowly pulled off corners of three pandan buns. Father had bought the newspaper but ignored it as they chatted about Mr Lim opening his third prawn farm at the far end of the estuary.

A man approached their table. He did not say who he was but Han recognised him from the gold Rolex on his left wrist.

Han had imagined Mr Ng as a tall, fair man with polished shoes. Upper-class, like all the people from the capital. Instead, he was dark from working in the sun too long. Another surprise: he was as tall as Han was. Grey streaks ran through his thinning hair. His cheeks looked as if they had once been puffy but were now sunken in. An old polo T-shirt and grey, nondescript trousers hung on him, along with the pungent stink of several-days-old unwashed clothes.

There was a raised mole the size of a coin on the left of his chin, out of which grew t. . .