by John Shors
The arrow never flew. Since childhood, Jayavar had piled stones atop one another in the jungle, marking his favorite places. Ajadevi had run past one of his piles, interpreted it as a sign, and hurried back in his direction. She had seen the Cham aiming his arrow and had leapt onto his back, gouging his eyes with her fingernails.
Jayavar heard her voice, saw her struggling, and killed the Cham. Still holding the boy, he helped his wife to her feet. They started running again, darting like deer through the jungle, following drops of blood left by fellow Khmers.
At some point the cries of their pursuers faded and disappeared. The Khmers continued on, running in streams to hide their passage, leaving their dead where they fell, urging one another forward even as their strength waned. Other escapees joined their ranks. The sun dropped and they followed its flight toward Siam.
The boy wept on Jayavar’s shoulder, and for the first time since they had left Angkor, Jayavar thought about stopping. In the distance a pyramidlike structure rose from the jungle floor. Crudely cut laterite bricks had been stacked upon one another, and though parts of the ancient structure had fallen, a pair of large banyan trees jutted out from its base, appearing to hold the remaining assembly of bricks in place. Jayavar had never before come across these ruins. He paused, gently setting the boy down. A woman ran forward, shouted a name, and picked up the child, tears wetting both their cheeks.
Jayavar limped forward a few steps and embraced Ajadevi. He then turned to their people and told them to expect only a short rest. After Ajadevi bound his wound with a strip of silk from her skirt cloth, he climbed one of the banyan trees. Two of his officers wanted to join him, but he needed Ajadevi’s counsel and asked that only she follow him.
The base of the banyan tree was so full of branches that it almost looked as if the tree had been turned upside down and that the canopy jutted from the jungle floor. Despite wincing from his wound, Jayavar climbed quickly. His heart was still pounding, and he knew that the Chams would regroup and come again. As the heir to the throne, he was a threat, and threats must be destroyed.
When he finally reached the topmost branches, which placed him higher than most of the surrounding trees, Jayavar paused to help Ajadevi move to a perch beside him. Though other treetops obscured some of their view, they could make out Angkor Wat and smaller structures in the distance. The city was still burning, vast plumes of smoke rising into the sky. Jayavar thought of how his children were likely dead, and the fortress he’d thrust up around his emotions crumbled. He wept, still staring at his home, his blood-splattered shoulders shuddering.
Ajadevi saw his tears but did not cry with him. She would weep later, she knew, after he was asleep. Now he needed her strength. With her love and her fortitude he could lead again. Without them, he would be lost.
She placed her hand above his wound, thankful that the spear hadn’t skewered him. She looked for Chams, saw none, and then closed her eyes and prayed.
“Prayers…shall not help us,” he whispered, though he was almost as devout as she. “They shall not save…my sons and daughters. Nor my mother and father.”
Ajadevi shook her head. “Your parents were old and in pain. Now they’re reborn. If you were them, which fate would you prefer?”
“And what of my children? What of their journey?”
“The young don’t have time to pollute themselves with hate, with crime, with jealousy. Your sons and daughters were all good, and they’re now reborn into better lives. Better lives, my love. They’ve taken one more step toward Nirvana, and no one should lament that.”
“I do. I will.”
Ajadevi nodded, placing her hand against his wound and holding it there. “I know, and I am full of sorrow, so full of it that the beauty seems to have faded from the world. But…but remember what we believe. And trust that your sons and daughters are reborn. As the sun will rise tomorrow, so will they. They are not gone. Someday you’ll be reunited with them.”
He turned to her. “I can’t…lose them like this. Not today. Not ever. So please…ignore my earlier words and pray with me. Pray with me that they still live.”
“I shall.”
Husband and wife prayed together, prayed that a miracle would befall them. Without the hope brought by his prayers, Jayavar knew that he would lack the strength to endure.
“A child should never die,” Ajadevi said. “Remember that. Remember that so when you defeat the Chams you’ll let their young go free.”
“Defeat them?” he asked, watching the distant fires. “My army is gone.”
“An army is nothing more than a collection of believers. Build another.”
“With what?”
“With your will. With what remains of our people, who surely hide in these woods. Live in exile, raise an army, and then return to claim your father’s golden sword. Just as you saved that slave boy, you can save your kingdom.”
“He is but one.”
“A kingdom starts with one.”
“I cannot do what must be done. I cannot—”
Ajadevi pulled her hand away from him. “Before you tell me what you cannot do, think of the Cham king in your father’s bed. Think of those you saw die today, of the women we left behind, of the children who are now slaves, of the hospitals you wanted to build. Every Khmer is counting on you, Jayavar. Your children, whether alive or dead, are counting on you, either for this life or the next.”
“But I’ve already failed them. My little ones…I’ve failed them all.”
“You can still help them. Indeed, the river runs red today, full of our people’s blood as well as with sorrow, pain, and anguish. But that Cham spear missed you for a reason. You were meant to return to Angkor.”
“I should have—”
“You’ve never doubted me, Jayavar. Please, please, don’t begin to do so now. I need you to trust me. For my sake, please trust me.”
Jayavar was about to respond when he heard faint voices to the east. The voices belonged to his foes, and now that he had rested, a part of him wanted to gather his men and attack the attackers. He wanted revenge.
“We need to leave,” Ajadevi said, tugging on his arm.
“I long to kill them.”
“Later. There’s been enough killing today.”
He closed his eyes, thinking of his sons and daughters, shuddering as he imagined their deaths.
“Come and follow me,” she said. “This is a world of infinite dawns and today is just one day. Tomorrow shall be another.”
“Tomorrow is too far away.”
“Hurry, Jayavar. They draw near!”
“Let them.”
“Stop this foolishness! We run or we die. We run or our city is lost forever. So run. Run now!”
Shouts erupted in the distance. Their trail had been discovered. Jayavar forced himself to push his rage and sorrow aside. He hurried down the tree, told his people to follow him, and was soon on the move again. His wound opened up, and blood trickled down his leg and fell to the dirt. His dirt, he reminded himself. The dirt of his ancestors. The Chams had come to make it their own. They had killed and pillaged. They had won the day. But the soil was rich from the blood of the Khmers, not the Chams. And someday, Jayavar promised himself, he and Ajadevi would return to reclaim it. They would free those enslaved; they would walk again in the footsteps of their ancestors.
Jayavar continued onward, leading now, helping the weak and wounded. Though on that day little luck had befallen him, he was fortunate that he ran to the west, away from his home. If he had seen what was happening to his people, seen the horrors that they now endured, he would have turned back and stepped into the flood of Chams. He would have fought them until they danced in his blood and even Ajadevi would not have been able to save him.
From Shadow to Shadow
hough nearly three weeks had passed since she had seen her loved ones perish, Voisanne was unaware of the daily wax and wane of the sun’s rays or of the changing colors in the sky. Time had lost all
meaning. She cared not if she lived or died, rested or suffered. Food was of no consequence, nor were her enemies, her thoughts, her dreams. She had been blessed for so many years, but now those blessings were gone, and it seemed that she lived a new life, one bereft of joy and meaning. If only she had been killed along with everyone else. A spear through her heart would have let her travel with those she held dearest, emerging into life again like a butterfly leaving its cocoon.
But Voisanne had not been killed. Instead, the Chams had gagged and bound her and locked her underground for many days. She was not alone. Several dozen other Khmer women, all beautiful and young, shared her fate. Each morning the door would open and the Chams would drag a shrieking woman into the light. The woman never returned.
When the Chams finally came for her, Voisanne made no protest. She walked with them, her head held high, believing that she would die soon and rejoicing in that belief. Her misery was almost at an end. Whatever waited after death could be no worse than the present.
To Voisanne’s surprise, she was led to the vast moat that surrounded the city of Angkor. She was told to bathe and given a fresh skirt cloth. Though she had never been ashamed of her nakedness, she turned away from the Cham warrior, covered her privates with a cupped hand, walked down the steps leading into the moat, and waded until the water was up to her neck. She didn’t emerge until he called to her several times in his strange tongue.
The warrior then led her into the immense and bustling Royal Palace, which was located just to the north of Angkor Wat and had hardly been damaged during the attack. Since it was built to house mortals and not the Hindu Gods, the Royal Palace was made of impermanent materials—namely, various hardwoods. The building had been home to the Khmer king, his wives, and his five thousand concubines. Though the Royal Palace didn’t rival Angkor Wat in terms of its beauty, it featured carved lintels, enormous wooden columns, courtyards, and bathing pools. Its most striking feature was its size, for the Royal Palace was two thousand feet long and half as wide.
Deep within the structure, Voisanne was turned over to a trio of Cham women. She didn’t understand their words, but they made it clear that any effort to disobey them would result in a beating. Voisanne only shrugged. When the women anointed her with perfume and gave her a necklace of flowers, she expected the worst. But no Cham warlord appeared. No one ravaged her.
That same evening she was brought to an elaborate feast. Seated before the foreign dancers and harpists were the Cham king and his confidants. Standing without thought or purpose, Voisanne simply waited for her fate to unfold. From somewhere in the distance, screams drifted to her, usurping the voices of a troupe of Cham singers. Voisanne listened to the screams, not the music. The sounds came from men, from Khmer men. One after another they shrieked, moaned, and went silent.
Nothing happened to Voisanne that night or the night after. She was locked in a small room, but left alone. Several times throughout the subsequent days she was close to the Cham king and felt his gaze on her. He was a brute of a man, a head taller than most of his officers and seemingly as wide as a horse. She never saw him hurt anyone, but he spoke at length with Khmer prisoners, and when they didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, they disappeared and the screams began anew.
For almost a week, Voisanne lived in such a way, a witness to her masters’ doings but called on neither to speak nor act. She was being saved for something or someone, she decided. She was a gift that had not been opened. At some point this pattern would change and she would suffer. But that day had not yet dawned.
Now, as the sun climbed high, Voisanne stood on the east side of Angkor Wat. She didn’t watch the nearby Cham warriors or their prisoners but turned to look at one of the most spectacular bas-reliefs in all of Angkor, which graced the lower portion of this side of the massive temple. She was unsure why the Cham king liked to interrogate his prisoners here, within sight of such beauty. The sandstone carving was called The Churning of the Sea of Milk and was almost two hundred feet long. Taller than Voisanne might reach, the bas-relief depicted the Hindu myth of creation. One side was dominated by ninety-two demons that pulled on the end of a giant snake. Eighty-eight Gods pulled on the other end of the snake, which was wrapped around a mountain set in the cosmic sea. The tug-of-war twisted the mountain, which churned the sea and created life—dragons, fish, turtles, and crocodiles.
Had she known the Cham king’s plans for her, Voisanne might have listened to the voices of her captors. She might have tried to understand what was happening to her countrymen. But she only looked at the demons and Gods, remembering how she’d talked about them with her father and, later, her lover. Her father had told her the story of creation. Her lover had wondered how anyone could fashion such beauty from stone.
Fifty feet away from the fabled bas-relief, several hundred Cham warriors stood behind their king and his closest advisers. Now that the invasion was over, none of the men wore their lotus-flower headdresses. The group was gathered in a courtyard that sprawled to the east of Angkor Wat. A sheathed sword hung from Indravarman’s hip, as usual. Weapons were cumbersome, and he believed that only by carrying them as often as possible would they become a part of him, no more aggravating or heavy than his hands or feet. Then, when battle came to him, as it inevitably would, his instruments of war would be readily available and easy to wield. Indravarman’s soldiers were required to carry their weapons everywhere outside their private quarters. Anyone forgetting to do so would be put to death without trial or defense.
The Chams were gathered in the shadow of Angkor Wat, a shadow that mimicked the rises and falls of the temple mountain above. As distant screams rose, Indravarman leaned toward a high-ranking Khmer official and a stout Khmer warrior. Both men were bound and on their knees. Asal stood beside Indravarman, his hand gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword. On Indravarman’s opposite side was Po Rame, his personal assassin and the most feared of all Cham killers. Po Rame and Asal were old adversaries, and Indravarman enjoyed their close proximity.
Because Indravarman demanded that all his officers learn to speak the language of their enemy, he had no need for a translator. He studied the Khmer official, saw fear in the man’s eyes, and then glanced at Angkor Wat. Six beautiful Khmer women stood at the base of the temple mountain, and he considered each of them, thinking that they looked stronger than their men. The women showed less fear and more resolve. He admired them.
Indravarman stepped closer to his prisoners. “The screams, do they disconcert you?” he asked in Khmer. “You seek a seamless rebirth, but if you fail to tell me what I long to hear, you too shall produce such screams before you leave this body for the next.”
The Khmer official nodded but said nothing. He trembled. His hip cloth was dark and moist around his groin.
“The work of your ancestors inspires me,” Indravarman said, pointing to the bas-relief that depicted the tug-of-war between the forces of good and evil. “It’s why your countrymen scream. Only I use two elephants. A man is tied between them, and they move in opposite directions. You see, the Gods make life. I destroy it.”
“I…know nothing, lord,” the Khmer muttered, his eyes darting again to the bas-relief. “I know nothing of where he’s gone.”
Indravarman felt his temper rising and let his emotions be known. He clenched his fists. “Jayavar left you,” he said. “He abandoned you. And yet you protect him.”
“I don’t pro—”
“You expect me to believe that no fallback plan existed? No staging point for a rally?”
“I…I am not a warrior, lord.”
“You had access to the king! To the prince! The false king is dead, but his son is not, and I want him!”
“I swear, lord. I don’t know where he is. I beg you, please, please believe me. I’d tell you if—”
“Tell me something now, of value, or the elephants are next.”
“I—”
“Tell me!”
The prisoner leaned forward, beating
his bound fists against his brow. He wailed and closed his eyes, flailing at himself until he suddenly straightened. “Stones,” he said. “You must look for piles of stones.”
“What?”
“The prince makes piles of stones in the jungle. I’ve heard that he does it to teach himself patience. If your men see one of them, lord, far from here, then you should look for him in that area.”
Indravarman cursed in his native tongue. “I want locations and you give me stones.”
“It’s all I have, lord. It—”
“Would you kill me, if you had the chance? Would your countryman, the warrior beside you, kill me?”
“What?”
“Would you kill me, coward, if you could?”
“No.”
Indravarman spat toward the prisoner. He then shifted his attention to the Khmer warrior, knowing that the man had slain five Chams before he was captured. Indravarman admired such strength and resolve. His own man, Asal, had killed an equal number of Khmers, and suddenly Indravarman was bored with interrogations and lies and whimpering. He wanted to take the measure of his man, to test his loyalty and prowess against the best that the Khmers had to offer.
