The Origin – What Really Happened
Tracy Chiu, Group 4: Fiction, SKH Lam Woo Memorial Secondary School
astily drove his way through the bustling market, a young man breezed with small, yet rapid, steps.
“
Ying! Here, take some tangerines with you,” exclaimed the plump fruit-seller, waving her
hands fervently. “They mean good luck, you know.” The young man grinned, and took hold of the
tangerines.
“
It’s Ying! It’s Ying!” people whispered when they spotted the man. In fact, with his 6-feet
height, hardly could people fail to notice him. They looked around chaotically, but soon lined up by the sides.
The man lightly bowed to the crowd as he hurried along the cleared path. People handed him all sorts of things,
a dipper, a cloak, an amulet, you name it. He thanked them one by one, and put the presents in his stuffed
backpack.
The 18-year-old was the most respected in the village. Though he dressed in rough burlap, eminently he
excelled those in glossy satin – he was always the top of the class. He was a true Confucian. On his way home
from the den, the “Analects” was always there to keep him company. He never came home without the book in
his hands, though with it he was so familiar that he could recite the every bit of it.
His name was Ying Zheng.
Before Ying could reach the bulletin board, loads of people had gathered around it already. He tried to
squeeze through the flock, but it was soon proved to be a total failure. But with his inborn advantage – his
extraordinary height – even he was blocked by a gang of young men, he could still take a peep at the board.
He scanned from the bottom. Nowhere could he find his name. His heart beat heavily. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
Ying hesitantly moved his sight upward, but, there was still no sign of him. He almost fainted. He was at the
fourth place now. Either he surpassed the fellow intellects, or he was not even in the top 50.
“
Y… Ying… Zheng,” stumbled Ying in disbelief.
He ranked the top in the imperial examination.
Ying was stunned. Being a government official had long been his ambition. It was the only way his family
could live out of poverty. For the first time in his life he felt tremendously blissful. Hope he heeded.
The sun set and rose. The sky darkened and brightened. But Ying’s eyes kept open all night long. The
rooster crowed. Cock-a-doodle-doo. Ying picked the most glamorous robe he had got – it was just indeed an
ordinary cotton shirt sewed for his grandfather’s funeral. But that was the best he had got. He flitted to the
Yamen. Before he stepped in, he took a deep breath, trying not to look too excited.
“
I am Ying Zheng. I come to report for duty,” Ying said in doubt. He wondered if he was talking to the
right person. The only person in the room, in chichi silks and a feathery hat, with legs shaking on the desk and
hands promiscuously writing calligraphy, was nowhere like an official.
“
Oh! Here you come,” the man immediately piled up a sham smile. He huffed and puffed, giving out a
hazy white fume from the pipe. He was the official in the Yamen. The official’s eyes flashed over Ying, and
looked him up and down. “Are there something you want to give me?”
Ying fell into primness before he could recover from the shock. He remained ossified for a second or two.
The official quickly pulled a long face – and that was a face of disgust.
“
You are responsible for the finance. Now work and you dare not bother me,” the official murmured with
impatience.
Ying shrank into a corner and started flipping over the account book. “What? 70 per cent of the harvest
was to be submitted each year? That’s too much! How could the peasants possibly fill their starving stomachs?
Not to mention earning a bit for new clothes and basic necessities,” Ying shouted in fury. “Confucius told us to
rule the country with morality – yet what I am doing now is an act of atrocity. I have devoted my life in
searching for humaneness, and material gain in no way could outweigh it.” Ying sobbed as he weakly untied his
uniform. He knew, he had just ruined the chance to rewrite his family’s fate. And now, they could never live out
of poverty.
Ying set his way home – without reading the “Analects”. He started to question the “words of wisdom”,
about their authenticity and dependability, whether he should continue following them.
He was at the door of his house, hovering. It was tough telling his family the melancholy.
A scream. Loud and ear-piercing.
The scene in the house didn’t stupefy Ying too much – he was used to it. There was not a piece of intact
furniture. The tea table was tilted into tittles, the chairs were crushed into crumbs, the straw mat was mangled
into morsels. It was just another day to meet the old debts. He begged the loan sharks sweet-tongued – he had
H