by John Boyne
“Certainly not by the day he proposes,” I said.
“Not even if we found more people to help?”
“I’m using every skilled person as it is,” I told him. From the moment that I’d been placed in charge of the project, I had drawn good work from each of the monks, but they had varying degrees of talent. The statue stood at twenty-four feet in height, was burnished in bronze and featured a yogi seated in the lotus position upon a garden of flowers, lost in meditation, and there was still much to be done before we could wheel it to the spot where it would welcome visitors, including King Balitung and his descendants, for all eternity.
“And what if we seek help from the local villages?” he asked. “What then? Might there be skilled craftsmen living nearby who—”
“But Monk Falang,” I protested, “you’ve stated explicitly that work on the statue can only be completed by those who live here, in the temple itself. To corrupt that idea at this late date would—”
“All that was before I knew the King was coming,” he said, raising his voice for the first time since I had met him. “You must have heard the stories about his rage?”
I nodded. It was common knowledge that the King was a man of little patience, with a quick temper, and had a predilection for administering imaginative punishments upon anyone who displeased him. It was said that he had taken a thousand heads since ascending the throne eight years earlier.
“I’m sure the King would never behave vengefully toward a holy man,” I said slowly, uncertain if I even believed this or was simply trying to reassure him.
“Oh no? They say that he tied Monk Raliappa to a stake in Surabaya and slowly poured hot oil over his skin for three days until the poor man died, and all because he had served some objectionable grapes after dinner.”
“Perhaps he thought Monk Raliappa was trying to poison him?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “And I certainly don’t want to find out. We have no choice; the statue has to be finished. Go into the village and find anyone who can help. I will pay whatever you need from our coffers. If it’s not ready by the time the King arrives, then none of us might survive his visit.”
* * *
• • •
Shiva, if he truly existed, must have been looking down at us benevolently during those days because we managed to complete the statue on time, having employed a dozen or more men from Prambanan who felt, not unreasonably, that the King might hang the lot of them and burn their village to the ground if things were not exactly as he wanted them. As the statue was moved into place, a task that took many hours and resulted in at least three broken limbs that I learned of, I stood back and examined the work I had directed. It looked very fine indeed and even I, who had always been something of an agnostic when it came to spiritual matters, found myself touched by its serenity.
The King himself, when he finally appeared, was a curious creature. Known by some as the Great Walrus of Jombang, he was a man of very wide girth but incredibly short stature, with small, sad eyes, a drooping beard and a heavily lined face. His most defining characteristic was the two canine teeth that protruded from the top of his mouth and hung almost as low as his bottom lip. In the pocket of his robes, four or five legs of roasted chickens stuck out prominently and his retinue included four of his current wives, the first of whom had dark hair, while the second had blond and the third red. Curiously, his fourth wife was not a woman at all, but a young boy of almost feminine beauty who dressed in the same robes of many-winged dragons as his sister-wives and was addressed as Queen Indah. The four queens marched behind their husband in descending order of age and, whenever he stopped to speak with one of the monks, they fanned out so there were two standing on his left side, and two standing on his right.
Our entire monastic community gathered to greet the King and queens and, at the very end of the line, stood Gunadi and I. The boy had apprenticed himself to me since his arrival at the temple and, over time, had become less self-conscious about the burn marks on his face and body. He had grown taller, too, and his work on the statue had added muscle to his previously slight frame. Still, I knew that he had been dreading these introductions, for his disfigurement always came as a shock to strangers and could often provoke unkind remarks.
King Balitung circled the statue of the yogi for a long time, examining its every intricacy, before finally nodding his head in approval. Withdrawing a couple of the chicken legs from his pocket, he ate a few bites from both before tossing them over his shoulder, where the dogs attacked the bones with a vengeance. Making his way slowly among us, he accepted the bows of the monks, offering a few words to some, before coming to a halt in front of me.
“And you?” asked the King, looking me up and down as if I was barely worthy of his attention. “You don’t look like these other men. You wear no yellow robe and have failed to cut your hair. Who are you?”
“A pilgrim, Your Majesty,” I replied, bowing my head. “Given sanctuary at the temple these last twelve months.”
“And you worked on this?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the statue.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And who’s this boy, your son? What’s happened to his face? He looks like something that an animal would vomit on to the street. Caught in a fire, were you?”
I turned to glance at Gunadi, who was staring at the ground, and I could feel his entire body trembling in a mixture of anger and embarrassment as his skin grew even more red with humiliation.
“Not my son, no,” I replied, speaking for him. “Another pilgrim. A very fine craftsman. Skilled with his hands. Hardworking. Reliable.”
“He may be all those things, but how can you stand to look at him?” asked the King, turning away in distaste as the third of the queens, the one with flame-red hair, stepped toward us and placed the palm of her left hand gently against Gunadi’s disfigured cheek. He looked up, still shaking, but when she smiled at him there was an obvious warmth to her presence.
“Ignore what my husband says,” she told him quietly. “He is a man who looks only for outward beauty. There are some of us, however, who have no choice but to search for the inner.”
There was a long silence as we each took in the meaning of her words and I noticed how Gunadi held his head high now as he met her eyes. She was not, I thought, very much older than him but, rather than feeling intimidated by this unfamiliar girl, he seemed utterly enchanted by her.
“Was that remark made for my benefit?” roared the King, pushing her back to stand in line with the other queens. “Stupid girl. Take my advice,” he said, leaning so close to me that I could smell the remnants of chicken on his breath. “Never marry. I’ve married dozens of times and every one of my queens has proved more painful to me than the last. Sometimes I think I should have become a monk like these men. I’ll stay for dinner!” he roared then as he marched past us. “But first, show me to the bathhouse!”
* * *
• • •
The evening went much as expected, with King Balitung consuming his body weight in food while the monks, Gunadi and I sat peacefully at our tables, hoping that our heads would still be attached to our shoulders by the end of the night. When an argument broke out between two of his attendants, the King declared that they would fight to the death for his entertainment but, fortunately, Monk Falang persuaded him that this was a holy place and it would be a sacrilege to sully it with spilled blood.
Throughout the evening I noticed Gunadi staring at the red-haired queen, whose name was Yayachandra, and it was obvious that he was completely unsettled by lust. We had become loyal companions at the monastery but, other than telling him the stories of the two women I had loved and lost, we rarely spoke of matters of the heart and I had not given any thought at all to his own romantic inclinations due to his tender years. But, of course, many
boys of his age were already siring children. My own father, indeed, had been married to his second wife by fifteen years old and had probably committed the marriage act with any number of other girls, too. So perhaps I should not have been surprised that, having spent so long in the company of older, celibate men, Gunadi’s desires would become aroused in the company of a beautiful girl who had displayed unexpected tenderness toward him.
And Queen Yayachandra was indeed something of an enchantress, as I’d realized earlier in the day when I chanced upon her while walking back from the temple, where, she told me, she had gone to watch the sun set over the head of the meditating yogi.
“I can walk ahead if I make you uncomfortable,” I told her, for I did not know whether her position meant that she should not be in the company of men who were not her husband.
“Please don’t,” she said. “Perhaps when we’re closer to the monastery, but not yet.”
“The King seems like a…” I paused, trying to find the appropriate words. “A wise and gentle fellow.”
“Is there not some rule about telling shameless lies at a religious site?” she asked, smiling a little.
“I think Monk Falang would frown upon it, certainly,” I admitted. “Although neither he nor I chose to marry the King.”
“Do you know many women who have chosen to marry their husbands?” she asked. “In my experience, it is always a thing decided for them by their fathers, by their brothers, by men. If women were allowed to choose, then the world would look very different, I think.”
“My wives chose to marry me,” I said, and she raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“Wives?” she asked.
“Two,” I explained. “Both dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied.
“Thank you, but I came to terms with my first loss long ago. And my time here at Prambanan has been spent trying to make peace with my second.”
“And have you succeeded?”
I thought about it. “I feel more serene than I did when I arrived,” I told her. “Which means the time for me to leave is fast approaching.”
“And where will you go? Back to your home village?”
“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I have a task to undertake first.”
My tone must have suggested that I did not want to discuss this in any greater detail, for she asked no more questions as we continued to walk, a little slower now, as if we did not want to arrive at our destination too soon.
“How long have you been a queen?” I asked finally, and she breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of jasmine sweeping through the air.
“Not long,” she said. “Less than a year. Currently, I am the fourth queen. Maharani is first, Permata second, Indah third and then I.”
“And Queen Indah,” I asked cautiously. “She is—”
“A boy? Yes. The King always likes to have one boy in his marriage harem. Indah is not the first, nor will he be the last. Soon, he will develop the signs of manhood and will be dispatched to the Cave of Snakes.”
I looked at her, unfamiliar with the phrase, and she shivered a little, rubbing her arms with her hands.
“A hollow near the palace,” she explained. “Enormous, I am told, although, happily, I have yet to make its acquaintance. They say there are a hundred thousand poisonous snakes inside. Vipers, cobras, taipans. An enormous boulder seals it shut but when the King is in one of his tempers, he banishes those who have displeased him inside its dark corridors and, of course, they are never seen again. From what I’ve been told, it is where all his boy-queens have been sent in the past.”
“And how soon will this be?” I asked, horrified for the child, who had surely done nothing to deserve such a ghastly fate.
“Within weeks, I expect,” she said. “Only recently, while he was singing, his voice broke a little and he started to cough, and I could see the expression of disgust on my husband’s face. I suspect that when we return to Jombang the boulder will be opened once again and the cave will swallow its latest victim.”
Ahead of us, the monastery appeared in our sights, and, as if we were somehow in tune with each other’s thoughts, we stopped and stood facing each other.
“How old are you?” I asked. “If I may be so bold.”
“Seventeen years.”
I felt a longing to reach out and touch her cheek. Her skin was very soft and her lips red and plump. But even at that moment, I could not do so. To touch her would have been to soil the memory of my late wife, whose mourning period of a year had not quite come to an end. But still, when she looked directly at me, something passed between us, a moment of understanding, and I said nothing more, simply smiled before making my way back to my cell, where I fell to my knees in a mixture of frustration and shame, beseeching my murdered wife to forgive my faithless thoughts.
All of this ran through my mind as I stood at the edge of the banquet and observed the expression on Gunadi’s face. There was desire there, certainly, but also a belief that he could love this girl if she would only afford him the opportunity. I recognized these emotions, for I had felt them three times myself.
First for Larinda. Then for Kalshava. And the third time only this very day. For Queen Yayachandra.
“Are you all right?” asked Gunadi, turning to look at me, but I did not reply, simply placing a hand on his shoulder in solidarity with him, for I was certain that either his heart or mine would be broken—more likely both—over the time ahead.
ARMENIA
A.D. 944
THE FOLLOWING DAY, I was walking through the heart of the chapel, replacing the burned-down candles, when I heard Father Fahram calling my name. A year had now passed since my arrival at the monastery and during that time there had been many moments when, alone in my cell, I’d found myself almost overwhelmed with grief and rage. At such times, rather than throwing myself from the turrets to the ground below, I had made my way toward this cool stone room where prayers were chanted in low, harmonious voices throughout the day. Seated in a pew, inhaling the incense-perfumed air and the scent of jasmine that drifted through the gaps between the stones, I usually found a way to expel negativity from my mind and return to the state of serenity encouraged by the priests.
Before retiring to bed after the previous night’s banquet, however, I had left a note on Father Fahram’s desk informing him that it was time for me to leave and that this would be my last day in Tatev. Having spent a year as a welcome member of his congregation, he seemed both surprised and saddened when he came to see me.
“But why?” he asked. “You’ve been such a help to us in our endeavors. And you’ve been happy here, haven’t you?”
“Very happy, Father,” I agreed, bowing my head in gratitude. “Had I not found my way to this place after—” I looked away. Halfway through my time at the monastery, I had told him of the events that had taken place in my village before my departure and he had proved a source of great comfort to me. “I doubt that I would even be alive now, were it not for your many kindnesses and those of all the priests who live in this place.”
“Well, we shall miss you,” he said, embracing me. “Although I’m sure you won’t miss some of the things we are forced to do in order to keep this place alive. I spent much of last night on my knees, praying to the Lord for forgiveness.”
I smiled. “It was an interesting evening,” I admitted.
“And not one that I would care to repeat,” he said. “Although I’ll probably have to, sooner or later. Let us pray that Boghos Sanasar does not return to visit us any time soon.”
The priests at our monastery were exceptionally devout and many had taken to their beds the previous evening, rather than being forced to spend time in the company of so notorious a sinner. Others had drunk their soup and eaten their meat with expressions of such discontent on their faces that it was difficult not to wonder whether
their food had been poisoned. In fact, the only three people who seemed to be enjoying the evening were Boghos Sanasar himself, my young apprentice, Garnik, and I, and we were only happy because we had become entranced by Yayranush.
“All I hope is that when the Lord finally calls me home, He forgives me for entertaining such a man and his harem,” said Father Fahram in disgust. “But I did it in His name. Without Boghos’s offerings, this monastery would never survive.”
“I daresay the Lord will forgive you,” I told him.
“And where will you go when you leave us?” he asked, and I gave him the deceptive answer I had been preparing for some days. Father Fahram was a man of goodwill and I knew that if I told him the truth, he would do everything in his power to dissuade me.
“I will travel,” I said. “Peace has been restored to me at Tatev and I feel ready to rejoin society.”
“You want a new woman, I think?” he said with a smile, and I looked down at the stone floor, blushing a little. My year of mourning might have come to an end, but I felt ashamed to admit that my mind was already turning toward matters of the flesh. “And what of Garnik?” he continued. “Will you take him with you?”
I frowned, surprised by the question. “I hadn’t given the matter any thought,” I replied. “We’re not family, after all. I’m not responsible for him.”
“Perhaps not, but you must know that he’s devoted to you. He’s not a priest and nor does he show any interest in becoming one, so it seems inappropriate for him to remain here much longer. Would you not consider taking him with you?”
I thought about it. While I was aware that the boy saw me as a sort of father figure, I was uncertain about aligning myself to him for any substantial period of time.
“I don’t know,” I said carefully. “There are things I need to do that might be better achieved alone.”
