by John Shors
Vibol saw his mother flinch. “We’ll be careful,” he said, staring at her. “I promise.”
She looked away.
From ahead on the trail, voices came to them. The warriors were returning. Boran took his loved ones’ hands and pulled them closer together. “I’ve always tried,” he said quietly, “to keep you boys far from war. Because strong, poor boys often go to war. In war, such boys can make names for themselves, find wealth for themselves. But war is vile, like a carcass in the water. It corrupts the pure. It maims the innocent. You may look up to these warriors, and you may be right to do so. They seem to be decent men. But remember that their backgrounds are humble, like yours. And when the fighting starts, when the poor drench the earth with their blood, the rich will stand ready to seize whatever hasn’t been destroyed. That’s the nature of war. You’ll fight and suffer and bleed. And those who haven’t fought will claim the spoils of the day.”
“But, Father,” Vibol said, “some wars must be fought.”
Boran nodded. “Wait, my son. Just wait. I’ve been thinking long about these things, as long as it takes to set dozens of nets, and I’d like to share my thoughts. Because I agree with you. Some wars—a few among many—must be fought. It seems to me that kingdoms on the whole are good, but they sometimes are led by men with malice in their hearts. And when that happens, when a kingdom attacks its neighbor, that neighbor must defend itself. Otherwise a people, a way of life, may cease to exist. And that’s where we find ourselves now, as the Chams have taken away what we hold most precious. Our homes are gone, our people dead or enslaved. And though I wanted to run from this war, to take all of you in my arms and flee somewhere distant and beautiful, I can’t go to this place. I can’t go because our way of life is more important than my life. And if I must die so that your daughters and sons will live as free people, under our laws and banners, then so be it.”
As his mother stood up and walked away, Vibol stared at his father, finally understanding his actions. For so long, in his most secret heart, Vibol had feared that his father was a coward. This fear had turned him away from the man he had always loved, but he realized now that his father was as brave as the returning warriors, as anyone. His father didn’t want to fight but would fight, not for himself but for his children and their children.
Vibol felt ashamed that he had doubted his father, the man who had taught him to fish, to read the wind and water. They had laughed together, cried together, and his father was no coward. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, reaching out and clasping the thick, scarred hands that he knew so well. “I’m sorry for being such a fool.”
His father squeezed his hands. “Just stay with me, my son. When the fighting starts, stay close and in that way we can safeguard each other.”
* * *
Sitting atop his wounded horse, Indravarman rubbed the dried blood of his foes from his face, still enraged that his force had been ambushed and decimated. Though he had thousands of warriors at his disposal back at Angkor, he’d expected to return with Jayavar in chains, not with his honor and reputation in tatters. Surely the knowledge of his humiliation at the hands of the Siamese would embolden the Khmers.
Indravarman eyed the jungle, hating it. He was tired of insects and bats and thorns. Though desperate to fight his foe, he longed to do so on an open field of battle, where he could see his enemy, where strength could meet strength. Fighting in the jungle was for cowards, allowing them to hide and then kill.
Once Indravarman had gathered his men and charged the Siamese, they had scattered like minnows before a heron. Yet the damage had been done. The front of the column, which should have been as sharp as a spear point, had been shattered. Asal and other officers of high rank had been at this point, and they had failed him, allowing the enemy to achieve a complete and overwhelming surprise. Four hundred Chams were either dead or badly wounded. Worst of all, Jayavar was still free.
His rage boiling over, Indravarman struck the rump of his horse with an open hand. The mount, already wounded from a sword stroke, flared its nostrils but only briefly increased its pace. Indravarman called Po Rame forward, remembering how the assassin had disabled a Siamese officer with a simple flick of a spear. The Siamese had broken later under Po Rame’s instruments, begging for his life and revealing the details of Jayavar’s offer. The man had been bought by gold, and when Po Rame was finally done with him, Indravarman had stuffed a coin down his throat and watched him choke to death.
The trail was wide enough so that Po Rame could guide his horse forward until it walked beside Indravarman’s. “Yes, Lord King?”
“Why am I surrounded by weaklings?”
“I don’t—”
“Jayavar makes promises with gold he doesn’t have, drawing Siamese into his ranks like flies to a corpse. And my men run like children at the first sight of the enemy!”
Po Rame smiled inwardly. He made no reply.
“Where is Asal?” Indravarman demanded, again hitting his horse, wanting to put distance between himself and his other men. “Why did his position crumble?”
“His woman is gone, King of Kings. They say he came for her even before the fighting started.”
Indravarman swore, remembering how Asal had worried about the missing scouts. “If he deserted his post, if what you hear is confirmed, he shall die by fire. Cowards are always best killed by fire.”
“And his whore?”
“She’ll die beside him.”
“A…fitting fate.”
“You’d rather have them for yourself, to do with as you wish?”
Po Rame nodded. “I’d rather, Lord King, look into their eyes when they die. Fire would keep me too far away.”
“Why? Why do the dying concern you so much?”
“Because it’s in death that a man gives you his soul.”
“You’re a taker of souls, Po Rame? You consider yourself a God?”
“I—”
“You think you could take my soul?”
“Your soul shall live forever, King of Kings.”
Indravarman spat dust from his mouth. “I despise the jungle, Po Rame. You seem to take pleasure in its shadows, but I detest them. Give me an open field of battle and let me see my foes.”
“The jungle is for peasants, Lord King. As for your foes, let me dispatch them for you before they desert you once again.”
“You speak of Asal?”
A shaft of sunlight penetrated the canopy to fall on Po Rame. He raised his hand, shielding his face. “The Khmer lover fled when you needed him, when your life was in danger. I’m told his sword was still sheathed.”
“But up until now his counsel has been valuable, Po Rame. It was he who advised me to approach Angkor using barges, he who has led some of my best men to victory after victory.”
“And yet now, Lord King, where is he?”
“With his Khmer,” Indravarman replied. “And she shall die. But he may live a short time longer. I have need of him yet. I want Jayavar alive, and Asal might be the man to bring him to me.”
“I will—”
“We lost four hundred warriors, Po Rame. Tomorrow, when we return to Angkor, pick four hundred of the fittest Khmers you can find. Round them up. Stand them in a courtyard. Then have our men practice on them with their spears and arrows. You may take as many souls as you like.”
Po Rame clucked his tongue. “And then should I search for the coward?”
“No. Because like a loyal dog, he will return. If he can explain his absence, he’ll live. Not because I feel merciful, but because his mind is as sharp as his sword. And for the time being I need a few sharp minds.”
“But once the false king is—”
“As I told you before, once Jayavar is mine, Asal can be yours.”
“Thank you, Lord King.”
“So pray to your Gods, pray to yourself, Po Rame, that the end is upon us. For my patience is waning. It’s left me before, and when that happens my mind goes blank, my generosity becomes a thing
of the past. And the people around me start to die.”
* * *
The campfire was small and fickle, swaying in the slightest draft, illuminating only a few paces of ground. Asal had built it not for warmth, of which they had plenty, but to keep the evening’s mosquitoes at bay. He and Voisanne rested beneath an outcropping of limestone near a stream. The half cave was deep enough to allow them to lie under it with only their feet exposed. On the other side of the fire, he had erected a bamboo fence that would hide the flames. Someone would have to be quite close to see the fire, and since Asal and Voisanne had left the game trail and found this secret place, he wasn’t overly worried about discovery. Of course, he kept his sword and shield next to him.
Asal had cut thick ferns and laid them on the floor of the shelter, creating a bed of sorts. They had eaten wild fruits and nuts, bathed in the stream, and placed short, sharpened stakes around the perimeter of their encampment in case some person or beast approached in the dark. As the sun had set, they prayed together, calling upon their Gods to grant favors both small and large. In addition to asking the Gods to protect Voisanne, Asal had prayed for his men. He had always fought with their best interests at heart, but for the first time in his life, he felt as if he’d failed them. He should have sensed the ambush a moment earlier, should have pulled his men back into a more defensible position. Worse, he’d been forced to leave them to their own fates in order to protect Voisanne. His emotions had overruled his sense of duty, and while he felt blessed to have rescued Voisanne, he wished that he could have also saved more of his men, some of whom he’d seen fall beneath Siamese blades.
Now, as Asal and Voisanne sat cross-legged near their fire, he studied their environs, making sure that he had properly prepared for the night. Several spear lengths away, a thicket of bamboo ran alongside and into the stream. Taller trees rose to obscure the darkening sky. Frogs croaked, crickets chirped, and bats darted this away and that, avoiding branches as they chased insects. The stream gurgled, its waters illuminated faintly by the fire.
Asal closed his eyes, again musing over the ambush. He knew that many of his countrymen had died in the attack and wondered if Indravarman or Po Rame had been killed or wounded. The king would have been protected at all costs. And yet it was possible that an arrow or a spear had taken his life. In that case, many of Asal’s problems would be solved. He could kill Po Rame before the assassin came for him. He could escape with Voisanne and her sister. Freedom might be his.
Careful not to create delusions, Asal reminded himself that Indravarman was highly skilled at war. He had most likely survived the ambush and would demand to know why Asal had fled. To protect himself, Asal had better concoct a convincing excuse during their journey back to Angkor.
“What are you thinking?” Voisanne asked, turning to him.
He saw how the firelight danced on her face, glowing on her smooth skin, on her lips. He had felt those lips and remembered their softness, wanting to touch them again. “Perhaps, my lady, you should escape tomorrow. I’d ensure that your sister followed in your footsteps. I could bring her to you.”
“No. I have to escape with her.”
“But Indravarman knows about you. And this knowledge places you in danger. He doesn’t trust me, and to get to me he might use you.”
“How can a king not trust his officers?”
“Because treachery was his path to power. Because his father, who led many, was betrayed and killed by a fellow officer. Indravarman fears what was done to his father; he fears that what he’s done to others may be done to him. Moreover, he’s never sired a son or a daughter. His blood does not flow in another, and because of that failing he trusts no one. He clings to power by removing those who might oppose him.”
Voisanne shifted her position, resting her head against his shoulder. “Will you come with Chaya and me when we flee?”
“Where will you go?”
“I must go to my people. Not for myself, but for Chaya. She needs friends. Someday she will need suitors. And she can have neither while hiding in the jungle with me.”
Asal nodded, putting his arm around her. Though he feared for the future, and remained torn about the prospect of betraying his countrymen, his spirits were buoyed by the sensation of her skin against his. He finally replied, “Your people might not welcome me.”
“But Jayavar is forgiving. I’ve met him twice, and he will remember me. And when I vouch that you’re to be trusted, I think that he’ll believe me.”
The fire was faltering, and Asal added two branches to it, then studied the darkness, ensuring that they were safe. “There was a time when I would have gladly died for my homeland. Now I contemplate running from it.”
“Please don’t run for me.”
“If I run, my lady, it will be for us both.”
“But maybe…you would risk too much. Maybe you should stay.”
She looked away as she said these words, and he did not believe she meant them. “For most of my life,” he replied, again stoking the fire, “I’ve felt as if the Gods have abandoned me.”
“Why?”
“I’ve felt cheated in that everyone I loved was taken from me. My mother, my father, my siblings all died. My memories of them are faint, too faint. And worse, the memories that could have been never were.” He paused, turning to her, surprised at himself for revealing his secrets, but needing to speak of them. “I’ve tried to convince myself that I wasn’t cheated, that the best parts of my loved ones exist in me.”
“They are in you.”
“Perhaps. I do enjoy the sea, as my mother did. And my father taught me about hawks, which I still seek in the sky.”
“I’ve seen you looking up…from time to time.”
He smiled. “I look for him. I swim for her.”
“You see, such things can’t be stolen.”
“I’ve tried to tell myself that. But after a battle, when I’ve endured loneliness and regret, I’ve still felt wronged—slighted by the Gods.”
She moved against him. “I don’t always understand the Gods,” she said, running her hand along his thigh, “but I think that they can be fickle, granting favors one moment and ignoring our pleas the next.”
The fire crackled, sending sparks toward the black sky.
“You speak the truth,” he said. “Because now I no longer feel cheated, but blessed. The Gods brought me to Angkor; then they brought me to you. Some of the wrongs in my life have been righted. And that’s why, my lady, I’ll go with you. I’m not so foolish as to turn from such a blessing.”
“You truly see me…in this way?”
“I see you…as something that fills the emptiness inside me, that warms the cold, that brightens the night.”
She smiled, still stroking his thigh. “A warrior-poet. I’ve found myself a warrior-poet.”
“I’m less the poet, my lady, and more the warrior.”
“Then I’d hate to be your enemy.”
It was his turn to grin. “When we return to Angkor, I’ll find a way for us to escape. But it may take time. You must be patient and tell no one our plans. Not even your sister. When the time is right we’ll simply come for her.”
“And then we shall run? To my people?”
“Yes. We’ll run for days and nights, and I don’t know where the paths will take us.”
An owl hooted in the darkness, prompting Voisanne to toss another branch on the fire. “I think you should trick Indravarman,” she said. “If he’s as mistrustful as you say, you should convince him that someone else is about to betray him. We could persuade Thida to whisper into his ear that you believe a traitor exists, and that you plan to track him to the north as he heads for a rendezvous.”
“Yes…a version of that might work. But be careful, my lady. Be very careful. Treachery is Indravarman’s weapon of choice, and if we fight him with that blade, he could turn it against us.”
“Then maybe we should just sneak away in the night and run.”
�
��Patience, my lady. You must have patience. Even though it suits you poorly.”
She threw another stick in the fire and sparks flew. “What I must do is escape with you, because the Gods have also cheated and blessed me, and we can’t waste this unexpected gift. It might not come again.”
“You’re the gift,” he replied, kissing her lips. “A gift that I see, that I hear, and that best of all…I feel.”
She leaned back so that she was lying on the ferns and looking up at him. He bent down to kiss her again, moving unhurriedly, like the dancing flames. He tried to further slow himself, for they had last come together in frantic need, and this time he wanted to savor their union. The Gods had blessed him, and he longed to honor them, as well as Voisanne. She was to be cherished, celebrated, and he could do neither if his desire overrode his control.
His lips and hands moved upon her, professing his feelings to her. He spoke not with words but in the way he held her. Though so much of him rejoiced at the sight of her, a part of him also feared that she would be pulled from him, that two people could not stand in the path of war and emerge unscathed.
Soon they would be back in Angkor, where he would be unable to protect her, to share his feelings as he was now.
Asal’s lips parted from hers. His pulse raced, and he wanted to slow it, to make everything remain forever as it was now. But the fire burned, the trees swayed, and he bent down to kiss her again, his hands moving with more speed, his mind, body, and soul restless to consume all that she had to offer.
The Pain of Paths
he temple of Banteay Srei was as Ajadevi remembered it. The only major temple in the Angkor region not created by a king, Banteay Srei wasn’t much larger than a cluster of ten homes. Built by a wealthy patron of the Hindu Gods, the site was made of light red sandstone and was much more detailed than the massive temples to the south. Surrounded by a head-high wall made of large, laterite blocks, the temple consisted of a platform that supported three towers.
Ajadevi and Jayavar had followed a long raised walkway to the main entrance, which brought them to a second walkway. This structure was roofed and graced by smooth pillars. At its end were several courtyards and a pair of ponds. The platform supporting the three towers was covered in intricate carvings that depicted demons, Gods, dancing women, snakes, and lotus flowers. Large swaths of sandstone had been carved to re-create heroic scenes from the Hindu epic The Ramayana. And though the temple was devoted to Shiva and Vishnu, inscriptions also championed the poor, the blind, the weak, and the ill.
