Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  Jayavar’s fists tightened. “And what is your idea for how to defeat our enemy?”

  “If it…pleases you, my lord, my son should speak,” Boran replied. “For it’s his idea. That’s why I asked that he accompany me here.”

  The king nodded, and Prak straightened. To Boran’s surprise, his son didn’t keep his head low, but stood proud and ready. “Before I say anything, my lord, I should tell you that I’m nearly blind. My ideas come from my thoughts, rather than my eyes.”

  “As they should.”

  Prak smiled. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “What do your thoughts tell you?”

  “They tell me that the Chams could be trapped at the water’s edge. I heard their laughter many times. They don’t seem worried about an attack. They feast and laugh and sleep.”

  “And how would you attack them?”

  Prak’s hands came together. He remembered what his mother had said about needing to protect his brother, to save him with a plan that would ensure their victory. “The Chams are wound up like a ball of fishing line,” he replied, his voice quickening. “They were cutting down trees to make room for their men, though for a while now I haven’t heard their axes. And the stink of their encampment makes me think that they’re packed tightly together.”

  Jayavar shook his head. “Armies always stink.”

  “Did you know that we sold them fish? We tricked them. And when we were tricking them an idea came to me.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The land where they’ve camped is so dry. During the wet season, the lake was higher, and all sorts of plants and trees grew in that wetness. But we’re now in the dry season. The Great Lake is low, and all of that land, where the water previously was, is filled with dried-out bushes and trees. This time of year the wind often blows to the south, from Angkor toward the Great Lake. If we came from the north, if we waited for such a wind, we could light a fire that would race toward the Great Lake. That fire could trap the Chams, forcing them into the water, away from their elephants and horses. We could follow the flames, attacking from the land, or we could fight them from boats. Either way, we’d be in a far better position than they are.”

  To Prak’s surprise, Jayavar laughed. “You say that you cannot see, but you’ve seen everything.”

  “I think fire would panic them, and when we came rushing in, they wouldn’t know what to do. We would crush them, and maybe we could capture some of their elephants and horses. I’ve heard that no one can ride an elephant like a Khmer. Why don’t we capture some for our warriors?”

  Jayavar smiled again. “Retaking Angkor will require many steps. But yours could be the first. Indravarman wouldn’t expect an attack at the Great Lake.”

  “And there are other Khmer fishermen selling their catch to the Chams. What if that catch was poisoned, or old enough to make some of the Chams sick? We could sell the old fish, then attack the next day.”

  The king turned to Boran. “Your son is wise beyond his years. Where did such wisdom come from?”

  “I don’t know, my lord. Certainly not from me. My life and thoughts are simple.”

  “My wife shall want to meet you both,” Jayavar replied. “And to meet the rest of your family. She told me this morning that you’d be coming. She told me to listen to you, and I’m glad I did.”

  Prak didn’t notice his father bowing. “But how did she know?” he asked without thinking. “How did she know we were coming?”

  “Because, like you, she has the gift of vision. She sees signs. And the signs said that you would come.”

  “I wonder if—”

  “We should leave, my son,” Boran interrupted. “The king is a busy man.” He turned to Jayavar. “When you’re ready for us, my lord, when the queen is ready, we’ll be yours.”

  Jayavar nodded, moving his hand to his sword hilt. “There is a secret place, my new friends, not far from here. It’s full of water and fish, and I think you will like it very much. I will soon travel there. And I’d be honored if you would accompany me.”

  “We’ll gladly go with you, my lord,” Boran replied, lowering his head once again.

  The king bid them farewell and turned to one of his officers.

  Boran took his son’s hand and led him away from Jayavar, squeezing Prak’s palm firmly. When they were beyond earshot of their fellow Khmers, Boran told his son of his pride in him, because he’d advised a king and that king had listened. He added, “I think I just watched my son become a man. And the best sort of man.”

  “What kind of man is the best?” Prak asked, the temple a blurry red mountain before him.

  “The kind who doesn’t think of himself, but of others. And that’s you, my son. The Gods may have taken your sight, but they replaced it with a strong and noble spirit.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Boran pulled his son into an embrace. “If something…should happen to me in the days ahead, remember what I just told you, that you’re the best kind of man and that my pride in you is as deep as the waters of the Great Lake.”

  “But nothing is going to happen to you.”

  “True enough, my son,” Boran replied, though a chill seemed to rush through him despite the heat of the midday sun. “Come,” he said, “let’s go find your mother and brother. They won’t believe that they’re about to meet the king and queen.”

  Voisanne and Asal sat in a long and narrow boat that had been painted red, equipped with a silk canopy, and featured a prow carved to resemble a dragon’s head. The creature’s face was green, its gaping jaws crimson, and its teeth and eyes white. The boat had most likely once belonged to a high-ranking Khmer official. At some point during the Cham occupation, the invaders had seized it. When Asal and Voisanne had come across the craft, he’d commandeered it from a trio of Cham warriors who seemed eager to give up the tedious task of guarding it.

  The boat, a pleasure craft, was designed for the canals and moats of Angkor. Asal stood near the stern and used a long bamboo pole to propel the vessel forward. Voisanne sat near him on a wooden bench that spanned one side of the craft. She often glanced up at him, as well as looked ahead. From time to time the towers of Angkor Wat emerged from behind the trees. Taking on a golden sheen from the late-afternoon sun, the towers appeared as magical incarnations, too perfect to have risen from the minds of mortals. Voisanne both cherished and shrank from the sight, rejoicing in the beauty of her people’s accomplishment but also fearful of once again being under control of the Chams. The past two days had been among the happiest in her life. She had laughed, run, swum, and been loved. Returning to Angkor, something she had always looked forward to, now seemed like the end of a beautiful dream, one from which she did not want to awaken. When she awoke, Asal would no longer be at her side. His shoulder wouldn’t be there for her to rest on. His voice wouldn’t be the last thing she heard before sleep swept her up. And instead of kissing him whenever an urge possessed her, she’d have to wait until he was with her and they were shielded from prying eyes.

  “May I tell you something?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “You might not like what I have to say.”

  “Then be careful, my big Cham, how you say it.”

  He lifted the pole from the water, thrust it forward, and dropped it again below the surface. Up ahead, a duck arose from the canal, its wing tips making circular ripples. Asal’s smile faded as the ripples spread out and the duck climbed into the sky. “When we first sailed down from my homeland,” he said, “I thought all Khmers were…beneath us.”

  “Why? Why would you think that?”

  “Because that’s what we were taught. Our minds were filled, cup by cup, with falsehoods. And I drank up all such tonics.”

  Near where the duck took flight, a snake swam across the surface of the canal, gliding with grace and speed. “I never felt that way about Chams,” she replied.

  He nodded, lifting the pole again. “But when I first glimpsed the towers o
f Angkor Wat, I wondered if what I’d been taught was wrong. Because I failed to see how something so extraordinarily beautiful could have been built by a people who were anything but extraordinary.”

  The distant towers drew her stare, rising like sculpted mountains, shimmering as the sun drifted toward the horizon. “My whole life,” she replied, “has been spent in the shadow of Angkor Wat. And there’s no place I’d rather have been.”

  “Beauty abounds in your land, my lady. I see it everywhere. In your temples, in your jungles, and…and in your face.”

  Her smile was fleeting. “But if you thought Angkor Wat was so extraordinary, why did you attack? Why did you seek to destroy such beauty?”

  “Because a warrior does as he’s told. Because sometimes fear is more inspiring than beauty. And I feared your people…and my king.”

  “And now?”

  “Now only my king concerns me.”

  She lowered her hand into the water, watching miniature waves spread out from her fingers toward the shoreline, which was a tangle of plants, shrubs, vines, and trees. “I think fear comes from the unknown,” she replied, watching the landscape. “Maybe if Chams lived in Khmer cities and Khmers lived in Cham cities we wouldn’t be afraid of each other. We would still be different from each other, of course, but maybe it would be easier to see the beauty of both places.”

  “There is, my lady, beauty in both places.”

  “Tell me about the beauty of your homeland.”

  He lifted the pole, swung it forward, and dropped it again. “Our land is not unlike yours. We have valleys, rivers, lakes, endless fields of rice. But while you climb hills, we climb mountains—steep and uninhabitable places where the Gods have left their marks.”

  Voisanne asked him more about where he was born, but her mind was suddenly elsewhere. Angkor Wat seemed closer, and she didn’t want to go home, not yet. “If not for my sister, I’d run away with you,” she said, interrupting him. “We could take this boat and head in the opposite direction, toward a place where we’d know peace.”

  “And I’d go with you, my lady.”

  “May we stay here just one more night?”

  The pole slid down his hands until his fingers tightened. “I…I don’t…”

  “I understand that you must get back to your king. That he awaits your return. But will one more night make a difference?”

  “He is…a demanding man. I have thought long about a story to tell him, a story that will calm his anger. I have a plan. But still…he will be hard to placate.”

  She nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. “Of course. Then we must go to him. Please forgive me for asking.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” He lifted the pole. The boat crept forward. Then he stopped once again. “But I also need no forgiveness, whether from the Gods or from Indravarman. And surely he can wait until tomorrow to see me.”

  “But you said—”

  “I was once inspired by ambition, my lady, but now I draw inspiration from something else. And why should I return from this place one day earlier than necessary? Indravarman needs me. He relies on me. He won’t harm me because he believes I can help him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. At least for now. At least until he feels safe within your borders. So let us enjoy our remaining time together. I shall return to him tomorrow.”

  She smiled and rose, standing beside him. The thought of spending the rest of the day and night with him flooded her with anticipation. The sights and colors around her appeared so much more vibrant than they had only a moment before. Burdens seemed to ease from her shoulders. And unburdened, she felt younger, full of the same joy and playfulness that she had possessed as a child.

  “What was that?” she asked, pretending to search the nearby shoreline.

  Asal leaned away from the boat, following her gaze, crying out as she pushed him from behind. He fell forward, landing in the water with a mighty splash and disappearing for a moment. He surfaced, spat out water, and laughed.

  And then she was laughing with him. He grabbed the side of the boat and heaved downward, and she let herself fall toward him, striking the water, aware of his arms coming around her. She kissed him, no longer focused on the towers of Angkor Wat but on him. When their lips parted, she admired the strength of his features, taking delight in his delight.

  They kicked for the shoreline, dragging the boat behind them. A patch of pink lotus flowers graced the water’s surface, and they took care not to disturb them. Soon their feet struck the mud. They emerged from the water, passing a rotting log that was covered in flat white mushrooms.

  The sun was dropping below the horizon, painting the landscape in hues of orange and amber. Asal started to kiss her again, but Voisanne stopped him, wanting to watch the wonders around her unfold. He was a part of those wonders, and she held his hand, pointing from sight to sight, in awe of the magnificence of the moment. The still water reflected the colors, creating a never-ending tapestry of reproductions.

  The light faded slowly. Still holding Asal’s hand, Voisanne stood up, looking toward Angkor Wat, proud of the towers, proud of Asal for appreciating their beauty. Her father had always told her that perfection was a word invented by poets and didn’t exist in the world. And until that moment, she had believed him. But now perfection was tangible, as real as the air that she drew into her lungs. The world’s ailments fell away. Instead, the triumphs of the Gods flooded into her, lifting her up toward a brightness that she had never before seen or felt.

  Only when her feet were truly off the ground did Voisanne realize that she was in Asal’s arms. Only then did she kiss him again.

  The Scent of War

  aving never seen so many people outside Angkor, Soriya eyed the vast encampment with awe. Temporary shelters made out of bamboo frames and covered with thatch seemed countless in number, though they were naturally camouflaged within the jungle. Cooking fires had been built in special stone ovens that hid the light and smoldered in front of many of the shelters. Women cooked rice and baked fish. Children played in the narrow river, for the most part unchecked, though mothers occasionally told them to avoid the intricate carvings.

  Soriya wanted to enjoy the waterfalls, pools, and trees, as well as study the images of her Gods. Yet her gaze drifted repeatedly back to the warriors who so dominated the landscape. Both Khmer and Siamese fighters sharpened weapons, repaired shields, practiced swordplay, or slept after a long night on duty as sentries. Most of the men were serious, ignoring laughing children or beseeching wives. The Khmers were dressed in simple hip cloths while the Siamese preferred colorful tunics. Though the two groups had fought many battles against each other over the years, they existed peacefully now within the valley, bonded by a shared purpose—to drive out the Chams. The Khmers wanted their city back. The Siamese mercenaries coveted the gold that a victory would bring.

  Since her family had arrived at the Khmer base the previous evening, Soriya had hardly seen her loved ones, who had been welcomed into the Khmer army. Prak wouldn’t fight but had been on hand as his father and brother were given a shield, sword, and spear. In the few moments that Soriya had spent with Prak since his encounter with the king, he appeared to have swollen with pride. In fact, both of her boys, and even Boran to a certain degree, seemed filled with energy and eagerness as they mingled with scores of Khmer warriors and officers. Boran had told her that while he feared and despised war, it felt agreeable to be a part of something larger than himself, of a noble effort to return their land to their people. And Soriya, for all her misgivings about their course of action, was pleased that Prak had advised the king and that Vibol seemed to have been reborn.

  Now, as she walked down a path near the river, she looked for her loved ones. The trail dropped, circumventing tree trunks, boulders, and immense anthills. Soriya said hello to strangers, smiled at some children who were making floats for the festival, and said a quick prayer while standing before a carving of Vishnu. She had
asked Vibol to meet her near one of the waterfalls after he had finished some training, and hoped that he would be there.

  Away from the river, on a slope leading up to a high ridge, Soriya saw that a group of officers had gathered around the king. He was standing on a boulder and talking quietly with them. Twenty paces beyond the officers, a ring of warriors ensured that no one else approached. As the king spoke, he pointed up the slope with a bamboo pole, thrusting the pole in various directions. Some of the officers appeared to nod. As they moved, rays of sunlight reflected off their weapons and shields. Soriya wondered if Jayavar was discussing the recent Siamese attack on Indravarman’s force. He had been delighted to receive the news of the confrontation, which had been successful enough to at least stall Indravarman’s thrust into the jungle.

  Soriya turned from the gathering when she heard the distant waterfall. She increased her pace. Somewhere a horse neighed. Alongside the river, a swordsmith and a boy affixed steel spearheads to long poles as thick as Soriya’s wrists. She imagined one of her loved ones being impaled by such a weapon and her gait faltered. You aren’t warriors, she thought. Please don’t think you are.

  A hundred more steps brought her to the waterfall. To her surprise and relief, Vibol stood on a flat boulder, apparently studying a carving near his feet. He carried a shield and spear. A sheathed sword hung from his side. The war gear made him look older, and even somewhat unknown. She called out his name and he turned to her, then motioned that she should follow him.

  They entered the jungle and walked along another trail as it climbed a nearby hill. After passing a group of Siamese warriors and some Khmer children who laughed and waved at the foreigners, Soriya and Vibol made their way to the summit. The crest sprouted thick hardwoods, and shade was abundant.