by John Shors
Turning to his left, Indravarman took a shield and a sword from one of his officers and tossed the instruments toward the Khmer warrior. “Free him,” Indravarman commanded to no one in particular.
A Cham untied the leather straps that bound the prisoner’s hands and feet. The Khmer remained almost motionless, though Indravarman saw him unclench his fists. Somewhere an elephant trumpeted and a man screamed. The scent of sweat hung in the still air.
“The prisoner has escaped,” Indravarman said, turning to Asal. “Kill him.”
Asal stiffened. Indravarman had tested him often over the past few months, tested his courage and his devotion. And after the successful completion of each test, Asal had been promoted higher in the ranks, finally becoming one of Indravarman’s most trusted officers. Asal had pleased his king many times over. He was where he wanted to be. He had made his ancestors proud. But suddenly now everything had changed.
To ignore the order would be to die; Asal was certain of that. He closed his eyes and tried to hear songbirds over the surge of his heartbeat, forcing his fear downward, as if it were an enemy that he could crush beneath his feet. Opening his eyes, he pulled his sword free, raised his shield, and stepped forward.
The Khmer stood up, unsteadily at first, and Asal gave his foe time to adjust to his freedom, so that no one could say the fight was unfair. Asal wondered if he would soon be reborn. He bit his lip, resigned to his fate and yet disappointed that he had climbed to such a high peak only to stare at an abyss. His wife was still unmet, his children yet unborn. Though he had been alone for most of his life, he didn’t want to die alone.
The Khmer warrior seized the sword and shield, screamed a battle cry, and ran at Asal. Their weapons met, and Asal felt the strength of his adversary’s blow. He pulled back, raising his shield, spinning away. The hum of a sword cutting the air filled his ears, and he knew that the Khmer’s blade had passed a handsbreadth from his neck.
Though Asal didn’t realize it, his countrymen had gathered in a circle around them. Everyone but Indravarman and Po Rame encouraged him. Indravarman wanted to witness Asal’s skill with a blade again and to study his tendencies in combat. Po Rame longed to see him die.
The swords rose and fell in curving arcs, clanging rhythmically. The combatants appeared well matched, and Asal took a blow on his shield, a strike so powerful that the iron edge and teak interior were split like a giant leaf. Asal threw his ruined shield at the Khmer, attacking without pause, parrying another swipe of his opponent’s sword and then smashing his fist into the man’s jaw. The warrior absorbed the blow with only a grunt, but his eyes watered, and Asal kept up his attack, swinging and lunging. His sword seemed to come alive, an extension of his arm, a bridge that would lead him to the future he coveted. Though the Khmer was large and skilled, though he carried a shield and a sword, a moment came and went when every onlooker knew that he would soon die. Asal was simply too quick. He was like a mongoose that danced around a cobra, darting and circling, feigning and attacking, probing for an opening. His sword finally pierced the Khmer’s defenses and the man fell, mortally wounded. Still filled with the fever of battle, Asal spun around, looking for another enemy. He saw none and so he took the life of the Khmer. He took it swiftly, giving the man a noble death.
Asal’s chest heaved and his throat felt dry. He didn’t care to speak, and simply stood his ground, wanting the crowd to disperse, to be free of their eyes. He felt weak, yet no one could see this weakness; no one could sense his fear. Indravarman was watching him, he knew, and though deceptive, Asal’s stance was wide and strong.
When Voisanne saw the Cham king turn and motion her forward, she remained still, certain that she must have misunderstood his intentions. He shouted and suddenly warriors ran toward her, pulled her ahead, and threw her at the feet of the Cham who had just killed her countryman. She saw blood on his hands and arms. She hoped that he would kill her too. But he made no move, remaining as motionless as the Gods and demons on the bas-relief.
“You are his,” the king said in her own tongue. “His and his alone. Please him or perish.”
Voisanne stared at the warrior’s feet. She sensed a blow coming from the king, so she nodded.
Indravarman said something to the Cham warrior and then walked away, calling out loudly to his other men. The Khmer official was carried, screaming, toward the unseen elephants. The remaining Chams began to disperse. They left as one, walking on the land of Voisanne’s ancestors, where the footsteps of her loved ones should have fallen. Voisanne longed to hate the Chams; she longed to plan her revenge. But such a profound weariness gripped her that she could not even hate.
Soon no one remained in the courtyard but Voisanne and the warrior. She expected him to move swiftly, as he had in combat. But he merely stood there, looking up, his face revealing no hint of emotion. For the first time she noticed that he was wounded—a dark bruise was appearing on his neck, left perhaps by the strike of a sword hilt.
Finally, he looked down at her. He did not grimace or mock or smile but simply stared. When she could endure his gaze no longer, she stood up, keeping her head bowed. “Follow me,” he said in her language, his accent less thick than the king’s.
Voisanne glanced toward the distant jungle. She thought about running, about how much it would hurt when his sword pierced her body. She was no longer afraid of death, but she didn’t want to shame her ancestors. Better to die another way, in a manner worthy of the blood in her veins.
So she went with the warrior, wondering if he had killed her lover or her mother, if he’d been there when the light of her world went out. She would never know, but at that moment, as she stepped where he had stepped, she decided that she would kill him. When he came for her, as he would, she would kill him and then end her own life.
Voisanne would make her ancestors proud. There was nothing else left for her to do.
Far from Angkor, deep within the maze of waterways and lakes that led to the city, the fisherman and his family sat on a log and studied their surroundings. Though they had seen no Chams during the three weeks since the invasion, they remained vigilant—listening to the forest, smelling the air, looking for signs of intruders. Boran and his wife, Soriya, took this task even more seriously than did their sons, who had spent much of the past few days arguing about what to do. Vibol wanted to avenge the atrocities they’d seen. He couldn’t forget the stench of disfigured Khmers floating down the river, the sight of their burning homes, or the whimpers of a dying boy. For once, Vibol had been jealous of Prak’s poor vision, though he knew that his brother smelled and heard sufferings that he did not.
While Vibol was angry at his father for not letting him warn their countrymen, he felt grateful that his mother had escaped the Chams. She’d heard their approach and disappeared into the jungle, hiding beneath clumps of giant ferns. As she had listened, the Chams had burned their family’s home and stolen their few valuable possessions.
Vibol, Prak, and Boran had been equally lucky. The Cham boat had drawn close to them, but in their haste the invaders had tipped over their vessel. Though Vibol had wanted to turn around and kill them, Boran had paddled on, desperate to reach Soriya. Their reunion had been silent out of necessity, but they had held each other as their home was reduced to embers.
In the days that followed, the family had paddled their boat westward and lived off the waterways. One morning they came across a Khmer soldier atop a war elephant. The blade of a spear was lodged in his belly and he was dying. They gave him comfort, told him that his loved ones were safe, and watched his eyes go blank. As the man died, Prak played his bamboo flute, trying to put him at ease. Once he was gone, the family burned his body, as he’d requested.
Boran and his sons had experience handling elephants, since most every Khmer who farmed or labored in the outdoors had some need of the beasts. Farmers counted on them to clear fields. Fishermen used them to drag new boats to waterways. And so once the family had burned the warrior to ashes,
they left with his elephant, Vibol sitting on its neck and using an iron hook to tug its ears in one direction or another. The elephant was a danger because of its bulk and inability to blend into the jungle, and Boran was relieved when two days later they discovered a group of Khmer warriors and turned over the beast. Vibol wanted to go with the other men, to regroup and fight. But after much discussion and argument, Boran forbade it.
Now, as the family sat on a log and ate smoked eel, they debated whether they were better off on their own or with a larger group of survivors. Because he knew the waterways so well and possessed a fast boat, Boran felt that they should stay by themselves. Soriya shared his views, which were opposed by their sons.
As Soriya reminded her boys that they were fishermen, not fighters, Boran watched her with pride. Though she was only two years younger than he, she looked half his age. Her face was wide, pleasant, and bore no scars. A dark mole sprouted next to her nose. Certain bends of the rivers held sand the same color as Soriya’s skin. Like all Khmer women, she wore only a skirt cloth, and her black hair was bound in a tight knot on top of her head. She wasn’t as lean as she’d once been, but Boran was glad that she had put on weight, for it meant that he was feeding her well.
“Do you seek death?” she asked, gazing at Vibol.
Her son took a bite of the smoked eel. “No. But neither will I run from it.”
Soriya paused, and Boran wondered if she would speak again. His wife used words as a bowman used arrows—carefully and only when needed. Most of the time she listened to her husband and sons in silence, often on edge, concerned about a diseased neighbor or Prak’s worsening eyesight. Since her sons didn’t worry enough, she fretted on their behalf—cleaning their cuts, whispering that they should consider marriage.
When Soriya didn’t respond, Boran turned to Vibol. “Maybe you should remember how that warrior looked with the Cham steel in his belly. Remember how he suffered? How his eyes filled with tears?”
“He said nothing of regrets,” Vibol replied. “So I can’t find fault in his death. At least he died fighting, not running.”
“Why can’t a warrior run one day and fight the next?” Prak asked, repeating an old argument.
Vibol stood up and kicked at a fallen branch. “They burned our home, killed our people, and the time to fight was then. Instead we hid like frightened children. We heard screams and did nothing!”
Soriya wished her son were as wise as he was headstrong. In the past his rashness had been something to smile at, to jest over, but now she feared it would cost him his life. “Think of me,” she said quietly. “Please, please, think of me before you run off to your death.”
“I do think of you. That’s why I’m still here.”
She nodded. “Thank you. Because I…I’d shrivel up like an uprooted plant if you were killed.”
“But we should have fought,” Vibol insisted, bending down to pick up the branch, which he broke in half and tossed into the jungle. “We should have at least killed those Chams who chased us and ended up in the water. Killing them would have been easy.”
Boran pointed to the half-healed wound on his leg, which Soriya had stitched up with silk thread. “You see this, Vibol? Don’t you think I wanted to kill the Cham who did this, who tried to put an arrow through your heart? Of course I did. Of course I was tempted. But sometimes being a man means taking the more difficult path—a path that leads to a better tomorrow, not a better today.”
“How can running from an enemy be a better path? An enemy who destroyed our home? Who killed our people?”
“Because—”
“You were afraid, Father! You won’t admit it, but I know you were afraid. That’s why we ran! We ran like three cowards, not like three Khmers!”
Boran’s nostrils flared and he stood up. He started to speak, but his son turned and hurried away from the stream, toward the jungle. Though he wanted to shout at Vibol to stop, Boran dared not raise his voice. He watched his son get smaller and smaller until the jungle seemed to swallow him up.
“I’ll find him,” Prak said, looking from his mother to his father. “I won’t see him, but I’ll hear him.”
“Are you sure?” Soriya asked. “Maybe your father should be by your side.”
Prak smiled. “It would be better if I spoke with him alone. He’ll listen to me. He’ll see me coming and let me find him. Then I’ll bring him back.”
“Why is he acting like this? He should be grateful that we all live.”
The smile faded from Prak’s face. “A girl, Mother. A girl he liked is dead. The Chams…they hurt her. They left her body tied to a tree.”
“Who was she?”
“He kissed her once, while bathing in the moat. He laughed with her. He dreamed about her, I think. And the Chams took her from him. He found her body and he hasn’t been the same since.”
Soriya rubbed her brow, wondering whom her son had favored. The knowledge of the girl’s death made her feel tired. She was weary of running, of hearing so many stories of suffering. “Please be careful, Prak,” she said, grasping his hand.
“I will, Mother. I promise.”
“You can’t ever leave us.”
“I know. And I won’t.”
She watched him make his way into the jungle. He could never run as his brother had, so he took a few steps, then paused and listened. Cicadas buzzed. The calls of birds seemed to echo. Monkeys scurried in the treetops, causing large leaves to fall. The leaves were green and thick but would quickly turn brown on the ground, as the monsoon season was ending.
Prak moved on. Soriya thought about asking Boran to follow him but knew that Prak would hear him. And she wouldn’t let her son lose face, not when he had worked so hard to gain it.
When Prak had finally disappeared, Soriya turned to her husband. “What will we do?” she asked. “We have to do something or Vibol will burst.”
“He thinks I’m a coward.”
“He said that…but he doesn’t really believe it.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I should have killed those Chams.”
“You chose life over death.”
“As a coward would. And now, to make up for his father’s cowardice, Vibol will do something foolish.”
A monkey screeched from somewhere above them. As she thought about her sons alone in the jungle, Soriya started to sweat. She remembered them at her breast and couldn’t imagine the world without them in it. “But what will we do?” she asked again, then rubbed her brow.
Boran glanced at the axe he’d taken from the dead Khmer warrior. “The Chams will come into the jungle. They won’t lie idle in the city like a tiger next to its kill.”
“Shouldn’t we go, then? Shouldn’t we flee?”
“If we flee, then Vibol will leave us. He won’t run from the Chams again.”
Soriya closed her eyes, knowing that Boran was right. “But we can’t stay.”
“Maybe…maybe somehow he can have his revenge. Let him wet the blade of that axe with Cham blood, and then he’ll have no need to prove himself again.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But the war found us, and now we’ll have to find it. We’ll find it in a time and place of our choosing, and our son will have to get blood on his hands.”
“Your blood? His blood? What you speak of carries too much risk. You’re just a fisherman, Boran. You’re no warrior.”
“I know. But he’s a boy yearning to be a man. And if we treat him only as a boy, he’ll leave us, and he’ll die alone and afraid. At least this way, if we aren’t strong enough, aren’t wise enough, we’ll die together, as one. We’ll die together and we’ll be reborn together, and it’s better to die together than to live alone.”
Soriya shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. She squeezed his hand and then walked into the jungle, searching for her sons amid the endless trees and bushes, needing to reach them before they drew too far away.
A five-day journey to the west of Angkor, Jayavar and Ajadevi
sat before one of the many fires that illuminated the night. Though the presence of so many fires worried Jayavar, the jungle was so thick that the light didn’t travel far. Rain fell, silent and fine, hissing on embers, soaking each of the eight hundred and sixty survivors who had gathered together. They were a varied mix of warriors, slaves, officials, women, and children. Many of them huddled in groups, each as wet as the next, sitting as close as possible to the weakened flames. A few Khmers had propped giant leaves above their heads, which kept them somewhat dry. Most had endured far worse hardships than the rain, however, and made no effort to keep it from themselves.
Jayavar studied their location, wishing it was more defensible, aware that they needed to find some sort of natural fortification in case the Chams came. Some of the nearby lakes and rivers contained islands, which might make suitable places of refuge. There were a few caves and crags too, places where several hundred warriors might hold off ten times their number. But any such place could also be surrounded. And to be surrounded would be to die.
Wondering if he should move his people from location to location or build defenses in one place, Jayavar threw a branch into the fire. Somewhere a child laughed, prompting the prince’s thoughts to slide to a darker place. He saw the faces of his sons and daughters, smiling faces that he had loved from first sight. Longing to see his children again, but fearing that he never would, he bit his lower lip, his tears mingling with the rain. He silently called out to them, telling them each, one by one, that he loved them. Thinking about how he had taught them all to stack stones and to move with care into the world, he picked up two rocks and then tried to balance the smaller one on top of the larger one.
Ajadevi reached through the darkness, her hand coming to rest on his knee. “Do you miss them most at night?”
