Land of the Dead
Alastair Choo, Group 3: Fiction, British International School Puxi, Shanghai
tanding on a wall that stretches far beyond the limit of even the eye of an eagle, and facing what appears
to be a screaming dust cloud on the horizon wasn’t really the best way to spend a nice, cool day. But nor
was it the worst way he could think of. The dust cloud had captured many a friend of his, and he
thought that standing under hot, heavy armour holding a sword would be better than the Mongols’ way
of hospitality for prisoners. The dust cloud was getting louder and bigger. He thought about his farm
and family. To wake up early before the sun rose then plough the fields and scythe the corn, then play with the
dog and fly some kites -if he had time- was the life he was used to. He could hear the hooves pounding hard on
the dry dusty ground and he could make out individual faces within the cloud. He could smell the fear
emanating off himself and the soldiers around him. His palm, slick with sweat, grasped his sword more tightly
and squinted against the intense sun. He heard their cries getting louder and his mouth went dry seeing the
thunderous cloud.
A bead of sweat formed on the brow under the dark shaggy hair, then it progressed down under thick
eyebrows, then past the watchful energetic dark brown eyes and it continued down his cheek, like a tear. It came
to rest upon his chin, and it fell off splashing on the floor. Yin Xing raised his sword and shouted. It was not one
of bravery. Nor was it one to intimidate his opponents. It was a cry of terror. Arrows flew from the sky in a
graceful parabola from the death cloud. Then the slaughter began.
When a sign says “Warning! Restricted Area. Staff Only,” and has a picture below of a guy getting his
head cracked open by falling rocks, then you know that the area is dangerous and you should probably shy away
from it. Then, after two steps you pause. You stop, retreat and poke your head around the closed off area, then at
that exact moment a uniformed guard appears from nowhere comes and shoves you just as you were going to
leave anyway. However, these two are an exception. Marc Pawley and Anna Herther both had the same hair
colour, a sort of blackish-brown, same boring black eyes, same rounded nose, identical oval face shape, same
age-24- and had the same hobbies. But this was their favourite hobby: To go into places where you’re not meant
to go without permission. And this time they were trekking along the Great Wall of China.
They knew very well that a lot of places along the Wall had caved in or fallen down. They drifted away
from the tourist group and wandered towards a promising destination pushing through an Italian family, a
couple taking pictures of each other and a mother with a pram. It was a nice, bright, sunny, breezy day. They
chose today due to the enormous amount of people coming to visit.
They arrived at their destination. On site, there was a huge yellow sign with all manner of excuses to
tell that no one was allowed here. Then it was repeated again in another six different languages. The pair looked
at each other, nodded and pushed open the door.
They found themselves in a dark, damp, musty room. It was lit by the light of day filtering through a
small, square hole lined with longitudinal, iron bars. An imprint was made a long time ago on the middle bar: A
jagged cut halfway finished; a fruitless attempt to saw past the iron lines between captivity and freedom. The
pair felt heaviness weigh upon their shoulders. Inexplicably, despair and fear created a mixture so vile in their
consciousness they felt for each other’s warmth.
They felt for the life in their partner, as they wandered around in this dead place. A hole in the ceiling
revealed another dark room. Bits of wall and brick were scattered across the floor, creating a precarious terrain.
Along the sides of the wall, dry round green piles of stone were stationed, looking like evil dormant beasts.
They both thought about retreating into the euphoria of outside, with the pleasant weather and company of
strangers. But both had remembered camping in the Land of the Dead, The Catacombs under Paris, where both
partied until the date was forgotten. They raised their chins and pressed onwards. It was at that point they saw it.
A leather bound book was placed next to the green mound closest to the window. Marc picked it up
and examined it, dusting it off with his hand and blowing the cover. It was coarse leather with sheepskin pages.
Some words were written with charcoal, others in what Marc thought was blood. He opened it and found it
written in Chinese. He beckoned over to Anna.
“
It’s in some sort of Chinese dialect,” muttered Marc to Anna matter-of-factly. “It’s definitely not the
simplified stuff nowadays. Not even the kind before that.”
“
You’re right about that,” replied Anna, “Looks like something between 476BC and 221BC.”
“
How would you know?” said Marc irritably in his low rough voice.
“
I studied Chinese dialects in University, remember? I think I can decipher this in fact.” She placed
herself on the green mound and started to read.
S