Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  “I no longer care to hunt,” he said quietly, stopping in a small clearing. “What was once a pleasure is now a task. Now I only want to see Indravarman’s head on a spear. I only want revenge.”

  Ajadevi moved to his side. “Humans lust for love, power, comfort, revenge. Buddha would disagree with me, but I think the lust for revenge is a very human trait. If you were a holy man, you’d overcome this need; you’d worry more about your karma than your enemies. But you’re a king and a father of murdered children. Thoughts of revenge are going to occupy your mind.”

  A gray squirrel scampered up a nearby tree.

  Jayavar slung his bow over his shoulder and then rested his hand on his sword hilt. “I want Indravarman to share in my suffering.”

  “And he shall. But once he’s dead, you must move forward; you must sheath your sword. Otherwise you shall forever be hollow and barren, so unlike your land.”

  “I shall try.”

  “Though it goes against my teachings, though I will taint my own karma by doing so, I’ll help you dispose of Indravarman. But my help comes with a price.”

  “What?”

  “You have to come back to me. You have to love life and love me.”

  “I already love you.”

  “Words not backed by deeds have no meaning, Jayavar. They’re like flowers bereft of color.”

  He shook his head. “And the fawn?”

  “What of it?”

  “I was thinking of my children when I saw that it was separated from its mother. I felt its pain. But then I saw its face and I thought of you. I knew that setting it free would be a gift to you. And I was loving you, in that moment, in the midst of my grief. I was still loving you.”

  She smiled, thanked him for his gift, and then stepped closer to him. “No man should return from a hunt empty-handed, with a quiet heart. A man should return from a hunt with a surging heart and with strength flowing through him.”

  “With a surging heart?”

  She leaned toward him, kissing him, pressing herself against him. He hesitated, but then she felt his hands on her and the welcome warmth of his touch.

  The Chams had made several bamboo docks that stretched into the brown waters of the Great Lake. A variety of boats came and went, unloading and loading cargo. The goods necessary to keep an army at full readiness were numerous. Weapons, armor, food, clothes, rice wine, women, entertainers, and much more were moved from the end of the docks to the shore. Prak watched all of the activity through the dirty lens of his vision. He smelled more than he saw—scents of horse dung, smoke, illness, damp leather, and boiling rice washing over him.

  They had been at the largest dock since the early afternoon, and their supply of fresh and dried fish was growing low. At first the Chams had greeted them with distrust, but once a commander of some sort had inspected their wares and questioned them in broken Khmer, they had been free to sell their goods. Though they had expected low prices, the Cham traders treated them with decency.

  Prak had been surprised to see other Khmers arrive in their boats and proceed to sell rice, fruit, vegetables, meat, and fish. At first he had been angered at the thought of his countrymen helping their enemies, but it soon became apparent that the Khmers were poor and struggling. Perhaps their normal trading partners were dead.

  Now, as Prak handed a large, still-breathing catfish to a Cham, he glanced at his father, who went through the motions of negotiating but was mainly searching for Vibol. Prak had hoped to find him along the shoreline as they approached the Cham camp, but they hadn’t seen him.

  The Cham accidentally dropped the slippery catfish, which fell into the water. Prak, who was sitting in their boat, reached down quickly, grabbed the catfish, and again handed it to his enemy. The man thanked him and tossed the flopping fish over his shoulder.

  Prak noticed that the Chams were gone for the moment, and he turned to his father. “We’re low on fish,” he whispered. “We should raise our prices or we’ll have to leave.”

  His father nodded, gazing along the shoreline. “He’s not here. Come, let’s paddle along the shore.”

  After pocketing some coins, Prak pushed away from the dock. Positioned at the front of the boat, he paddled on his left and weaker side, which allowed his father to steer. Though he wanted to put all of his weight behind each stroke, to search for his brother with as much haste as possible, he forced himself to appear relaxed. “Where are you?” he whispered. “Show yourself, Vibol. We’re here.”

  The shoreline was a blur to Prak, but he noticed that his father kept close to it. He listened to his mother muttering prayers, which he hadn’t heard her do in years, as religion was a substance they did not eat. Still, she prayed to the Hindu Gods, sniffling between her thoughts, pleading that her son be found unharmed. Listening to his mother’s suffering deepened Prak’s own misery. Their family had always been close, but now it was like a cart with only three wheels. They could barely function.

  The blurred shapes of Cham boats came and went. Prak heeded his enemies’ distant voices and was reminded of how they had first entered his country. All his life he had listened to his parents and brother, to animals, to the wind as it made its way through the trees. These were the sounds he wanted to hear, not the strange chattering of Chams.

  Prak increased his pace, and the boat leaned to the right. He felt his father paddle with more strength, correcting their course. Thinking that perhaps Vibol would recognize his voice, Prak began to sing an old Khmer melody. His mother joined him, and their song carried over the water, louder than it would have been on land.

  A huge boat loomed to their right. Someone screamed from within the vessel and Prak stopped singing. The scream came again. Though the voice belonged to a Khmer, it was not his brother, and Prak lowered his head, relieved and saddened. Thinking of the prisoner, he reached for his flute and began to play, wanting his countryman’s ears to be filled with a sound other than the taunts of his torturer.

  The screams dissipated as his father paddled onward. A second dock grew larger, though it wasn’t long and served only one- or two-man boats. Prak set his flute on his knees, preparing to grasp the bamboo.

  It was then that his mother shrieked. She called out his brother’s name, pointing toward the shore. His father hissed at her to be silent but stopped paddling, and their boat drifted. At first Prak saw nothing but the blurred shoreline, but then he noticed what looked like a black rock sticking out of the water.

  “It’s him,” his mother muttered, weeping. “What have they done to him? Go, Boran! Go to him!”

  Prak felt tears stinging his eyes. He pleaded with his father, who started to paddle but stopped when Vibol’s head moved.

  “He lives,” Boran whispered. “Praise Vishnu, he lives.”

  “Then get him!” Soriya replied. “Go get him!”

  Prak glanced toward the shoreline and saw the blurred shapes of countless Chams. He tightened his grip on the paddle.

  “No,” Boran said. “If we free him now, we’ll all die.”

  “What?”

  “He lives. He’s strong and he lives. We must wait for darkness. Only then will we be able to save him.”

  “No!” Soriya protested, turning in the boat, nearly capsizing it. “Now! Help him now!”

  Prak dropped his paddle and spun around, grabbing his mother. He pulled her tight against him, knowing that his father was right. She struggled like an animal in his arms but was no match for his strength. Whispering, he tried to calm her as his father paddled away, toward open water. Still, she writhed in his grasp, twisting and kicking and seemingly possessed by demons.

  Waves lapped at the sides of their boat in the deeper water. The shoreline receded. His mother finally ceased to fight him, and Prak felt her go limp, praying that the Chams hadn’t noticed the commotion. His mother moaned, shuddering against him. She continued to weep. He kissed the back of her head.

  In the deep water of the Great Lake, he saw nothing—only a vast white empti
ness that added to his misery.

  In the growing darkness, Vibol’s terror became even more pronounced. Through his swollen eyes he saw scores of large fires that partly illuminated the Cham encampment. The flames were exaggerated through the prisms made by his tears. Blood trickled from the wounds on his chin, cheek, and eyebrow, dropping to the water. Tilting his head forward, he drank the brown water, tried to hold it down, but soon vomited.

  Something brushed against his shins and he screamed, struggling against his bonds. But the Chams had driven the stout bamboo pole deep into the mud and tied his arms and legs together behind it. His body was stretched and beaten. His thoughts swirled around his impending doom.

  Shaking as if he stood in ice water, he begged for mercy, pleading with the Chams along the shoreline. For the most part, they ignored him, though someone occasionally threw a rock in his direction or mimicked his pleas.

  Vibol felt small and helpless. He longed for his family. The blackness beneath him made him think of Prak, and he wondered how his brother could be so brave. Prak had always faced this same darkness, uncertain and alone, without complaint or self-pity.

  Again something bumped into his knee and Vibol screamed. He tried to tell himself that it was merely a perch nibbling at his wounds, but he knew that the Great Lake was full of crocodiles and huge snapping turtles that would smell his blood. He was surprised they hadn’t found him yet. Throwing himself against his bonds, he twisted and fought and shrieked. For a long time, he had wanted to be a man, but he now felt like a child, desperate to find comfort in another’s arms, floundering in loneliness as much as in water.

  Time had seemed to stand still for Soriya, Boran, and Prak. After rowing away from the Cham encampment, they had gone ashore, argued, wept, and then devised a plan. Fearful of Cham sentries and the light of their fires, Prak had suggested coating themselves and their boat in mud, which they had done. Now, as they gripped dark paddles and slowly made their way back to Vibol, they looked like a mere shadow on the surface of the Great Lake.

  Boran had wanted to wait longer, until the dead of night, when the Chams would be in the depths of sleep. But like Soriya and Prak, he had grown fiercely impatient, deciding to risk the safety of his family rather than let his boy suffer any longer.

  The night air was still, bereft of wind. Boran would have preferred a breeze to mask the sound of their boat slicing through the water. He paddled without rhythm, often pausing, trying to sound like a fish breaking the surface. Though he yearned to rush blindly forward and yank his son from the water, he forced himself to remain calm. Had he been alone, he would have hurried, putting his own life at great risk. But he couldn’t further endanger Prak and Soriya. If the Chams caught them attempting a rescue, their fates would be dreadful.

  Thinking about Vibol suffering put such a weight on Boran’s shoulders that he struggled to breathe. His son had counted on him, and he’d failed him. No job was more sacred to Boran than protecting his loved ones. And yet he had allowed Vibol to be captured.

  Boran didn’t contemplate the notion that Vibol might be dead. To wander into such a dark abyss would have rendered his mind useless, and he needed to be sharp and ready for any contingency.

  Cham fires appeared. He whispered to Prak to stop paddling and then leaned forward to squeeze Soriya’s hand. He let their boat drift. The huge fires cast light across the water, illuminating elephants, boats, and dwellings. Boran slid his paddle into the water, pulled upon it, and propelled his boat forward. Somewhere a Cham was laughing. A horse neighed. The scent of roasting fish hung in the listless air. Anchored Cham boats began to drift past like black hills. Lanterns hung from the bow and stern of each craft, and he steered as far as possible from these sources of light. He continued to fight the nearly overwhelming urge to rush to his child, instead angling away from danger, often moving with such care that he unconsciously held his breath.

  Vibol’s head appeared in the distance. He seemed to slump forward, and despite the great need for vigilance, Boran’s paddle bit into the water with strength. His boat drifted toward his son. He reached for a dagger and slipped over the side and into the water, praying to Gods he had once forsaken, offering his life in return for that of his boy.

  He swam to Vibol, wrapping his arms around him. To his profound relief, Vibol moaned. Without pause or thought, Boran dived underwater, feeling along the pole, finding the rope around Vibol’s feet and cutting it with care. He freed his son’s hands next, then eased him away from the pole. Prak reached into the water and helped pull his brother into the bow of their boat. Vibol’s feet thumped against the wood bottom and a Cham called out. A moment passed. A lantern moved atop a distant boat. Boran froze, but Prak pretended to be his brother, moaning loudly.

  The night stilled once again. Boran shuddered at the sight of Vibol’s battered face. He held him tight, stroking his cheek, sharing him with Soriya, who cried and kissed him.

  Prak paddled them forward, away from the fires and toward a darkness that was welcomed by all.

  Return to Angkor

  he bronze tower atop Bapoun Temple glistened in the early-morning light. Though the massive, five-tiered temple was more than a hundred years old, it remained in pristine condition, prompting Indravarman to wonder why the Khmers were better builders than his countrymen. The courtyard in which he sat was guarded by eight bronze elephants, each life-size and showing remarkable attention to detail. Some high-ranking Cham had ordered that his kingdom’s colors be draped over the beasts. Indravarman thought the bright swaths of silk looked ridiculous on such works of art, emphasizing the Chams’ inferiorities.

  On another day, Indravarman would have ensured that the fabric was removed, but thoughts of Jayavar’s capture dominated his mind, as they often did. Each morning brought new rumors of the prince’s whereabouts and activities, goading Indravarman with their very existence.

  A huge slab of cut sandstone lay in front of Indravarman. A detailed map of the entire region had been drawn on the slab, and silver coins marked the locations of Indravarman’s scouting parties. Cubes of jade indicated the presence of piles of stones that had been found in the jungle, and it was the gatherings of jade that kept Indravarman’s interest. Based on multiple interrogations, Indravarman knew that Jayavar had a habit of creating these piles, and he studied the map hard, looking for patterns. His scouts were finding new piles each day, and he was getting a better sense for what parts of the land his enemy tended to frequent. Jayavar seemed to prefer the north to the south, and lakes to plains.

  “His tendencies are obvious,” Indravarman said. “But does he know as much and intend to do the opposite?”

  Po Rame stepped forward, moving with grace and silence. Though he appeared to carry no weapon, a blade and a garrote were concealed in his hip cloth. As usual, he kept his back to the sun. “I don’t think the coward is in the south, King of Kings.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because our numbers there are too great. He’d be discovered.”

  Indravarman’s gaze traveled westward on the map. “Has he gone to the Siamese?”

  “My spies would have told me as much, Lord King. No, I believe he cowers in the jungle, likely to the north.”

  “You believe or you know?”

  “It’s unclear—”

  “Enough!” Indravarman slammed his thick fist atop the sandstone. He was tired of speculation. The future would be determined by knowledge, not conjecture. “He knows where we are,” Indravarman said. “That gives him an advantage, despite his weaker numbers.”

  Po Rame eyed the officers who stood in a distant circle around them. Tired of their excuses, Indravarman had sent them out of earshot. “A pity,” Po Rame replied, “that all his sons are dead. If a whelp still lived, we’d have leverage.”

  “Better to have them all dead.”

  “But what, King of Kings, if we spread a rumor that one yet lives? Would the coward come to save him? Could a trap be sprung?”

  Indravarman
stood up from his crouched position. “The youngest son? Who would inspire less confidence in the Khmers?”

  “A boy, Lord King. He was just a worthless boy.”

  Nodding, Indravarman wondered if it had been a mistake to kill all of Jayavar’s family. Perhaps the boy should have been spared for such a day. “Walk with me.”

  The two Chams, followed at a distance by a score of officers and several of Indravarman’s favorite philosophers, made their way to the vast temple, then proceeded up its steps until they were able to touch the bronze tower. From such a height, the city of Angkor spread out like a gray and green blanket before them, trails of smoke diffusing into the sky. Indravarman studied the distant formations of his men and their war elephants. He imagined himself as Jayavar, hiding in the jungle, raising an army, bent on revenge.

  “What of his woman?” Indravarman asked. “What of her line?”

  Po Rame answered, “They’re also all dead, Lord King. Gutted like fish the day after our victory.”

  “Then it will have to be the boy. Spread your rumor. Say that he’s ill and kept for my entertainment in a cage right here, atop this temple. Say that in order to live, he must pray out loud every day for his father’s death.”

  Po Rame nodded. “We’ll have to find a whelp and put him here.”

  “Do it. And hide a score of our best men within these walls.”

  “Consider it—”

  “Jayavar is too wise to come himself. But he will send someone. And that someone may lead us to him.”