by John Shors
“You would do well to return my gaze,” he said in Khmer.
“Please…forgive me.”
“Please forgive me, Lord King. That is what you should say. That is what you shall say if you wish to avoid an unfortunate fate.”
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the golden statue. When Thida made no reply, Indravarman moved closer to her, his calloused fingers tracing the contours of her neck, her shoulder, her arm. “Do you think me cruel?” he asked, still touching her.
“Yes…Lord King.”
He saw wetness beneath her eyes and wondered if it was rain or tears. “I’m only cruel so that I can obtain what I desire. Ambition begets cruelty.”
She looked away, trembling now.
“I desire you,” he said. “Must I be cruel to fulfill my desire?”
“No.”
“A pity so many of your countrymen didn’t share your wisdom. Their fates could have been much more pleasant.”
Thida glanced up at these words, and Indravarman rejoiced at the fullness of her eyes. Even in the darkness he saw that they were red and inflamed. Grunting, he stepped outside, curious if she would stay or follow. After only a heartbeat’s hesitation she stepped into the rain, trailing his footsteps.
So quick to break, he thought. Too bad all Khmer women aren’t like you. If all Khmer women were like you, my enemies would be naught.
Far to the west, back at Jayavar’s camp, a shadow seemed to float through the night. The shadow avoided the prince’s sentries, circumventing anything that might betray its presence, whether a restless elephant or a fallen twig. Every few feet, the shadow paused, studying the darkness. The rain had finally stopped, and the wet ground made for silent steps. The voices of insects had replaced the splatter of water, their chirps and cries punctuating the air. Most of the cooking fires had gone out, though embers glowed near sleeping warriors, women, and children.
The shadow crept closer to where the prince and princess resided. A simple shelter of bamboo and deerskin had been erected, and the couple must be sleeping under this roof, since they weren’t near what remained of their fire. Pausing once again, the shadow surveyed the immediate surroundings. The moon and stars were hidden by clouds and it was exceedingly dark.
A muffled cough emerged from the shelter, and the shadow crept forward, holding a spear with small yet hardened hands. Though the spear had once been of simple design, its shaft was now carved with temples and Gods. The weapon was unique, while its iron blade remained sharp and deadly.
More tentative steps were taken. The cough came again and the shadow’s heartbeat quickened, seeming to race forward like that of a runaway horse. The shadow moved past the dying fire, heat emanating into the darkness. Two figures could be seen faintly within the shelter. The prince lay next to the princess, her head on his chest.
Whispers infiltrated the night. Three figures moved through the trees, all carrying weapons. Instinctively, the shadow lowered itself to the ground. As the guards neared, the shadow took a final look at Jayavar, then receded into the blackness, backtracking, moving swiftly yet silently.
The shadow circumvented warriors and elephants, hurrying to the opposite side of the camp, setting the spear down, then lying in an empty space and watching with patience as the clouds slowly parted to reveal a sea of stars.
Searching for Yesterday
he horses were restless. Even Ajadevi, who had never ridden before, sensed their disquiet. Back in Angkor, she’d either walked or been carried on a jeweled palanquin. Now, as she sat behind Jayavar on a silk pad tied to the animal, she rested her hand on their mount’s broad back. She closed her eyes, felt heat emanating from the firm flesh, and was reminded of a distant time and place. The catalyst of the memory, one from a former life, was the heat. Something had burned and blackened. Wood? Straw? She shook her head, patterns emerging, fabric smoldering beneath a flame.
Their horse neighed and the vision was gone. Ajadevi opened her eyes. The jungle through which they traveled was thick with towering ficus and teak trees. Many of these behemoths were limbless for the first two hundred feet and then topped with rich canopies. Smaller trees, shrubs, ferns, and flowers competed for the early-morning light that managed to penetrate the leafy ceiling. Black squirrels, gray monkeys, and colorful birds traveled in the dangerous heights, causing leaves and twigs to fall. The dry season was about to start, but for now dampness hung in the air. Scents of decay and new growth lingered from bend to bend, from hill to valley.
Ten horses and an equal number of warriors accompanied Jayavar and Ajadevi. They rode in the middle of the group, which stretched in single file as far as one might throw a rock. The warriors were the strongest of the remaining Khmers. Each would gladly give his life for the prince or princess, and each was bent on revenge against the Chams.
“I saw a moment,” Ajadevi said softly.
Jayavar turned, his gaze meeting hers. “What moment?”
“Burning silk.”
He nodded, accustomed to her visions. “And why did the fire start?”
“Passion, I think.”
“Passion?”
“The flames…rose from passion.”
“Did you see anything else? Anything that might aid us?”
Ajadevi thought about the Chams, about how the heat of a former life might provide insight into what they faced. “The Chams…covet our beauty, but may destroy it.”
“I know this.”
“They destroy our future.”
“Our children? My children?”
Sunlight filtered down from a gap in the tree canopy, warming Ajadevi’s shoulders. “The Chams are like shadows, but a few…a few are like light. A few can be trusted.”
“The only Cham I trust is a dead Cham.”
“Don’t talk like that, Jayavar. The world isn’t a place of black and white, but of color. Some Chams deserve your blade and some do not.”
“If my children live, I shall be merciful.”
She reached around his waist, her hand finding his. “I love your children too. I’ve always loved them as if they were born from me.”
“I know.”
“And I’ve had my own children,” she said, aware of warmth within her belly. “Long before I came upon this body, I was a mother.”
“So you understand how I feel. The ache. The emptiness.”
“I do.”
Jayavar nodded. “A part of me wishes to rush to Angkor, to see if they live. The other part of me wants to proceed slowly, for I fear what we shall discover and I cling to hope.”
“Hope clings to you.”
“How?”
“The hope of your people. Of your unborn sons and daughters. Of me.”
He studied the men in front of him, thinking that most of them also had children, that their burdens were as great as his. “I fear…that I’m not strong enough,” he whispered. “Men will die for me, but I’m the same flesh and blood as they.”
“Men will die for a belief. Not for you, but for the belief that you stand for something noble. Angkor Wat was built on such beliefs. The Hindus created the temple to house their Gods, their faith. Though Buddhism leads me on a different path, I still like to look at the Hindus’ statues, to see the faces of their Gods.”
“Why?”
Ajadevi thought about Angkor Wat, remembering the steepness of the steps that led toward its summit, which served to remind Hindus that the ascent into a supreme soul was a challenging task. “When I climb the steps of the temple,” she said, “I feel as the old Hindus wanted me to feel, as if I’m climbing a mountain, climbing toward something beautiful.”
“Maybe you helped them build it, in an earlier life.”
“I think so. I have memories…of carving. Of blistered hands and an aching back.”
Jayavar’s gaze swept through the jungle. “Do you think me reckless to split up our forces? To take our ten best men, to steal them from the women and children we left behind?”
“They have eno
ugh warriors to protect them.”
“What should I do once we reach Angkor? How shall I discover the fate of my children? I have considered entering the city dressed as a priest, but perhaps there is a better way.”
Ajadevi glanced at an immense web that hung between a pair of narrow tree trunks. A black and yellow spider, nearly the span of her fist, waited in the center of the web. “Last night I dreamed I was a beggar,” she replied. “I was seen but unseen.”
He pursed his lips. “Yes, that might be better, even more inconspicuous. We could soil ourselves and beg outside the city walls. We could look humble, but talk to Khmers, let them know who we are, and inquire about my children.”
“We should.”
“And if…if they were slain?”
“Then wherever we sit you shall promise your children to build them a temple in their honor. You shall think of them, pray for them, love them. And then we shall leave.”
He shook his head. “A hospital. If they’re gone, I shall one day build a hospital on that site. A hospital for children.”
Her hand tightened around his. “You see? That’s why men will die for you.”
“Whatever I’ve learned, I’ve learned from them. And you.”
She looked away. “And yet I still fail you.”
“How?”
“You need an heir and I cannot give you one. Perhaps another of your wives should have lived instead of me. Perhaps I—”
He twisted around, placing his fingertips under her chin and gently lifting it. “Without you I’m nothing. Without you the Chams would prevail.”
She kissed his wrist. “I don’t wish you to be nothing.”
“Then stay beside me, Ajadevi. Always stay beside me.”
The faintest of smiles graced her lips. “I’m a part of you. Not beside you, but within you. Like your children. As they remain within you, as they always have and always will, I am within you.”
“I feel you.”
“Please remember my words in the days ahead. They will be days that will test you as you’ve never been tested. And so you must believe that you do not walk alone.”
Morning light bathed the towers and stairways of Angkor Wat in amber. Before the Chams had arrived, the temple had been mostly filled with Hindu priests and pilgrims. A few Khmer warriors and administrators had walked its great chambers, but the majority of those who entered the complex came to pray. Since the invasion, everything was different. Cham warriors were posted throughout Angkor Wat, and Khmer priests had dwindled to a fraction of their usual numbers.
As Voisanne strode beside Thida, she avoided the eyes of the Chams. Yet she felt their gaze on her and increased her pace, wanting to be free of them, wondering why the enemy warrior had protected her. She’d thought about killing him throughout much of the night but had finally succumbed to exhaustion and slept as far from him as his room allowed.
Voisanne proceeded down the long corridor on the southwest side of Angkor Wat. To her left ran a series of square, sandstone pillars that framed her view to the west, through the open side of the walkway. On the opposite side stretched an enormous bas-relief that depicted hundreds if not thousands of warriors in battle. Horse-drawn chariots charged at formations of foot soldiers carrying spears, swords, shields, and flags. The bas-relief depicted the Hindu legend of the Battle of Kurukshetra, and though Voisanne had always enjoyed the story, she turned away from the scene, not wanting to see spears and death. She glanced at the high ceiling, which bore painted carvings of red lotus flowers, and then turned to her left, passed through Angkor Wat’s main entrance, and stepped onto the causeway that led to the moat.
Thida kept a few paces behind Voisanne, and their Cham watchdog stayed farther back, the shaft of an axe resting on his shoulder. Thida’s eyes were downcast, her hands held in front of her. She might have been the most beautiful woman Voisanne had ever seen, but she seemed to drift ahead without purpose, like a cloud on a windless day.
The causeway, wider and straighter than any road, was inundated with people of all backgrounds, though the majority were Chams. Voisanne passed a pair of statues of nagas—seven-headed serpents. Between the statues, sandstone steps led to a street that teemed with more of the enemy. Nearby, Khmer homes, built on stilts so as to protect residents from tigers and snakes, were occupied by Chams. Khmers were also present, though they often huddled under trees, cooking rice and fish over makeshift fires.
After a short walk to the west, Voisanne passed through a gateway that was part of the stout wall surrounding all of Angkor. Another few dozen paces brought her to the moat, which was nearly six hundred feet wide. She smiled for the first time since the attack, because the water, as usual, was filled with her people.
Each side of the moat was lined with steps made out of laterite blocks, and Voisanne proceeded to the water, the black blocks warm against her feet. She removed her skirt cloth, covered her privates with a cupped hand, and stepped into the moat. As Thida repeated these actions, Voisanne moved away from the shoreline and into cooler water. She studied her people. Thousands of Khmers bathed to the north. Her view to the south was blocked by the causeway, which led across the moat toward towering trees. Though a few Khmer children laughed and played in the water, the adults were somber. Usually couples could be seen clinging to each other or washing off after intimacy, but Voisanne saw no lovers. People simply sat in the shallows or swam far from shore.
Voisanne splashed water on her face, then rubbed the dust and grit from her features. She repeatedly dropped underwater to scrub her hair and body. Like most Khmers, she bathed several times a day in an attempt to stay clean and to keep the heat at bay.
When she finished washing herself, Voisanne turned to Thida, who had hardly moved. Voisanne studied her companion, wondering why they had been ordered to bathe together. Why, when there were thousands of concubines in the Royal Palace, had Indravarman arranged their pairing?
“What brings us together?” Voisanne asked, then glanced at their guard, who remained at the moat’s edge.
Thida didn’t seem to hear her.
Voisanne stepped closer to the other woman. When Thida still made no effort to speak, Voisanne thought about the Cham warrior. If he’d ravaged her, as she had expected, she would have killed him and then herself. She would be on the path toward rebirth, toward her loved ones. Instead she stood in the shallows and felt the wounds of her memories. Her brother died again and again in her arms. Her lover perished without a final, gentle word between them.
Her tears came then, as swiftly as pain. Somehow, even as her vision blurred, she noticed that Thida also wept. Voisanne reached for her companion and their fingers met and clutched.
“What happened to you?” Voisanne asked.
Thida slowly shook her head, as if waking from an unpleasant dream. “Indravarman.”
Voisanne understood. The fate that she had predicted for herself had befallen Thida. The Cham king had used her as he pleased. Thida’s beauty, which most would have seen as a blessing, had become a curse.
Thida leaned forward, collapsing into Voisanne’s arms. Voisanne supported her as best she could, weeping also, wondering if they should somehow drown each other.
A deep laugh caused Voisanne’s heart to skip. She turned and saw that the Cham guard was smiling. Two other warriors had joined him.
Suddenly Voisanne wished she were a man. If she were, she would pick up a weapon and kill the Chams. She would avenge her loved ones. For so long she’d wanted to create life, to witness her child emerging into the world. But as the Chams gawked at her, she longed to take life, to send the demons back to the underworld from which they had come.
But Voisanne could do no such thing. And so she held Thida as upright as possible, their teardrops forming ripples on the water, their bodies and minds clinging together, searching for solace when none could be found.
The giant catfish was proving to be a good distraction. Boran had thought about cutting it loose, but decided that his s
ons could benefit from the challenge of catching it. They’d spent the night beside a large river, risking a fire to ward off mosquitoes and flies. Boran had set out three lines, leaving a dead frog on each hook. He hadn’t expected to catch anything, but now, as Vibol and Prak allowed the thin rope to be pulled through their hands, he could tell by the movement of the water that they’d hooked a beast. Worried that his boys would run out of rope, Boran hurried into the jungle, found a vine as thick as his remaining thumb, and yanked it from the branches above. He tied the end of the rope to the vine. “Be patient,” he said to his sons. “Fight too hard and you’ll lose him.”
“Too bad he’s not a Cham,” Vibol replied. “Then you’d really see a fight.”
Prak turned to his left, stepping into the shallows. He could feel the catfish trying to make its way downstream. “He’s smarter than a Cham. Look where he’s headed.”
“So follow him downstream,” Boran advised. “You’ll never pull in such weight against the current.”
His sons did as he suggested, moving with the water. Prak tripped twice over unseen logs. He regained his footing on both occasions, trying to outmaneuver the catfish.
As Vibol and Prak pulled on the rope, Boran asked Soriya to hand him a weapon. She gave him the Cham axe and he held it ready. The river widened, becoming slow and lazy. “Your chance is at hand,” Boran said. “Put your backs into it.”
The twins heaved on the rope. Seconds later, the dorsal fin of the catfish appeared, then its arched back. Boran could tell that the fish outweighed any of them and he was suddenly as excited as his sons. Seldom did anyone catch a giant Mekong catfish. Had they tried to pull it in from their boat, they would have foundered.
As the catfish entered the shallows, it headed toward a sunken tree. Boran shouted a warning, but Vibol and Prak could do nothing as the line snagged on an unseen branch. Though now tied to the tree, with its next burst of strength the catfish would likely break the thin rope. Before Boran could utter a word of advice, Vibol grabbed the axe from him and ran into the water, lifting his legs high as he charged forward. He struck a hidden branch, stumbled, but managed to bring the axe down hard on the catfish’s broad snout. The water erupted in spray as the creature thrashed against its attacker. Vibol swung again and again until Boran shouted at him to stop. The fish was dead.
