Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  “Ensuring that my sword didn’t have a fleck of rust.” He glanced at his weapon, which was propped up in the near corner. “I used to scrub that blade until it shimmered like the sun. Now all I care about is that it’s sharp.”

  She liked the sensation of his knees touching hers. She wished that she could feel more of him. “And now…since your sword no longer needs to shimmer…what catches your gaze?”

  “You, my lady. You’re all I need.”

  “I’m only a woman.”

  “And the sun is only a light in the sky.”

  She brought his hand to her lips and kissed a scarred knuckle. “I made you something,” she said, and reached into her skirt cloth and removed a necklace. A thumbnail-size piece of unfinished jade had been crisscrossed with a silver wire and hung from a thin strip of leather. “I found this stone at the edge of the river when I was with you. I thought it seemed strong and wise, just as you are.”

  He smiled, examined the stone, and then placed her gift around his neck. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “You’re welcome, my big Cham.”

  “I shall always wear it.”

  “The stone suits you.”

  “You suit me.”

  The morning light filtered into the room. Voisanne knew that soon people would be waking. “Why did you send for me?” she asked.

  He beckoned her closer. “I’ve found a guide,” he answered, his words barely audible. “A Khmer guide. We shall leave tonight when the moon rises over the horizon.”

  Her pulse quickened. “Leave for where?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have two choices. We can run from war. We can find a secret place where we’ll remain unseen. Or we can run to your people. But the second course will be a perilous one. Indravarman’s spies are on their trail. They near them. Soon a fresh horde of my countrymen will sail into the Great Lake. Indravarman will assemble every man he has, march north, and attack and overwhelm your people.”

  Voisanne stiffened, shaking her head. “Then we must warn them. Please, please tell me that we can warn—”

  “I knew your answer would be so,” he replied. “And, yes, tonight we’ll strike out to warn them. Tell your sister to be ready. We’ll meet on the north side of Angkor. Across the moat there is a teak tree that’s recently fallen. Meet at this tree.”

  “And Thida. I have to bring Thida.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I left her when the Siamese attacked in the jungle. And I can’t leave her again.”

  “Then bring her. But tell no one else. Travel with enough provisions to last for three days but no more than that. Once Indravarman learns that I’ve fled, he’ll send men after us. They won’t know which path we’ve taken, but they’ll be fast. We will need to move even faster.”

  “What about a horse? Could we leave on a horse?”

  “Horses neigh. Their tracks are easy to follow. Once we get beyond Angkor, a horse would be a blessing. But near the city a mount would be a curse.”

  She nodded, pleased that she’d had the foresight to purchase items for their journey, but also fearful of Indravarman’s wrath. “And you’ll go with me to my people? You’ll help us?”

  “I’ll help you. And if that means helping your people, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “But you risk so much.”

  “I risk losing you, my lady, if I don’t help you, and that’s a risk I shall never take.”

  She moved forward, spreading her knees apart so that she straddled him. Her lips pressed against his, and she pulled him against her. “Will we be fast enough?” she asked, then kissed him again, fueled by desire and fear. “Will they catch us?”

  “They will try, my lady. But we’ll have a good start on them, and I think that shall be enough. I know where your countrymen gather—at least where some of them do. We can find them, and you can warn them.”

  “And what will you do?”

  He glanced at the door. “There is a man…an assassin…who will come for me. I’ll have to kill him. Then my fate will be in the hands of your people. I hope they’re as worthy as they seem.”

  She squeezed his shoulders. “I’ll protect you. But I don’t think I shall need to. You’ll have told them about the approaching army. They’ll trust you.”

  “If they trust me…they may expect me to fight for them.”

  “No. You can’t fight against your own people.”

  “I’d rather not,” he admitted. “Most of my people are good. It’s Indravarman who leads them astray.”

  “And if he falls?”

  “Then my people will return to their homes. Your people will be free.”

  Someone coughed in the hallway outside. “My people must kill him,” she replied, still whispering.

  “Yes, but he’s a very difficult man to kill. Many have tried.”

  “Maybe—”

  “I must go, my lady,” he interrupted, then kissed her brow. “Preparations for war are under way, and if I’m not a part of them, Indravarman will suspect me of treachery. So slowly walk back to your sister, then to Thida, and tell them of our plan. And meet me tonight, when the moon has first risen, by the old teak tree across the moat.”

  “I shall be there.”

  He started to get up, but she held him still. “What?” he asked.

  “I need to tell you something—that I love you. Because tonight we’ll run and I have no idea when I’ll have another moment of peace with you. So when you’re running, when you’re leading us through the jungle, remember that I love you and that when all of this is over I shall be yours and yours alone.”

  * * *

  Later that day, when the sun reached its zenith and she felt as if she were a coal in a roaring fire, Voisanne walked toward Angkor Wat. For once her eyes didn’t stray to the majestic towers. Instead she gazed at the ground, her feet falling rhythmically on hot sandstone. She had just come from a clandestine meeting with her younger sister and smiled as she thought about Chaya’s exuberance. Her sister’s emotions had always been close to the surface, her laughter easily provoked, her wit incessant. When Voisanne had told her about their coming escape, Chaya had barely managed to stifle a shriek before leaping into Voisanne’s arms. After curbing her sister’s enthusiasm, Voisanne had told her where and when to meet, stressing the importance of stealth. She had left her in the stables where she was tending Asal’s horse.

  Voisanne had also met with Thida and whispered about the coming night. Thida’s reaction was the opposite of Chaya’s. The very thought of sneaking away under a full moon had made her visibly nervous. She’d wrung her hands, glanced about in all directions, and often stopped in midsentence to compose herself. Voisanne tried to convince her that an attempted escape, even with its inherent dangers, was safer than remaining with Indravarman. In the end, Thida had promised to meet Voisanne by the old tree, and Voisanne swore that they would flee together, hand in hand if need be.

  Now, as Voisanne made her way through the long corridors of Angkor Wat, she considered the coming night, deciding how to best leave her quarters, which route to take, and if she should somehow darken her skin so as to blend into the night. Her emotions lay somewhere between Chaya’s and Thida’s. She was eager to escape her Cham masters, to be with Asal, and felt enormous pressure to warn her people of Indravarman’s imminent attack. But she was also fearful of what the night would bring. Perhaps a guard would see them escape. Perhaps the assassin who was Asal’s enemy would track them down. Too many variables existed to ensure the future she longed for, a future defined by the peace of kingdoms and the companionship of the man she loved. Life seemed so tenuous, and her growing fear prompted her to seek out the Echo Chamber. She needed to pray.

  The chamber was cool, quiet, and empty. Voisanne moved to an unadorned wall, pressing her shoulder blades and spine against the stonework. She closed her eyes, struck her fist on her chest seven times, heard the sound of bells ringing in the d
istance, and began to pray. At first she prayed for her ancestors, feeling guilty that she had not thought of them for several days. Then she begged for safe passage that night. She beseeched the Gods to watch over the small band of friends and loved ones who would flee in the darkness. This band would be noble and good, she promised. They would each contribute to the world in meaningful ways.

  Please, please help us, she thought, then struck her chest another seven times. My father said that in this place, more than in any other, you listen. So please listen to me. I know that I’m nothing to you but a speck of dust, but just as you did, in the coming days I shall face demons and I need your help. I can’t fight them alone. So will you help me? Will you help a woman who doesn’t have the strength to lift a sword but who isn’t a coward, who will do what I can to save my people? We built this place for your pleasure, and we deserve to live and to build again. Grant us this victory, Gods of all Gods, and I know that we shall build for you again.

  Voisanne turned around so that she faced the wall. She kissed the stonework, something that she’d never done. The bodies of her loved ones had touched this same spot, she knew, as had those of her countrymen. Though stone could not speak, though walls could not whisper, the chamber was a place of life, of magic. How else could a beating fist be turned into ringing bells? And since the chamber was endowed with life and magic, surely the Gods could hear her pleas. Although she was a speck of dust, did not countless specks of dust comprise the universe?

  A Khmer girl entered the chamber. Voisanne smiled at her but the gesture was unreturned. The girl’s eyes were bloodshot and an acute sadness seemed to grip her. Voisanne had an urge to hold her, to tell her that everything would be as it was, that her prayers would be answered. Sniffing, the girl placed her back against a wall but paused before striking her chest.

  “Would you like me to pray with you?” Voisanne asked softly. “To pray for you?”

  The girl nodded, a tear dropping to her cheek.

  Voisanne moved next to the child. She felt the wall against her back, her fist strike her chest. Once again the bells sounded. Only this time Voisanne did not pray for her own needs, but for this stranger, this girl who was not so different from herself.

  To everyone who was eager to celebrate the Festival of Floats, darkness couldn’t fall swiftly enough. For generations the festival had been one of the most popular events in Khmer society, an event during which participants asked forgiveness of the earth for having polluted it during the past year.

  More than five thousand Khmer men and women lined the banks of the river, while their children gathered upstream near a special bamboo platform that had been built across the water. The children held plate-size floats that had been carved from the wood of fallen trees. Surrounding a single beeswax candle that rose from the middle of each float were orchids, chrysanthemums, and lotus flowers. The candles hadn’t yet been lit.

  On the far end of the platform, away from the children, stood Ajadevi and Jayavar. She smiled at the sight of the laughing youngsters. Several weeks earlier, when she had first thought of holding the festival, she’d sent a courier to Siam asking for a delivery of candles as well as essential items such as medicine and weapons. The candles had arrived a few days earlier—each tall and thin, carefully wrapped in silk.

  Everyone was waiting for complete darkness. The night was already almost black, and most kings would have signaled for the celebration to begin. But Jayavar was a patient man and he was waiting until the best possible moment to launch the candles. Somewhere downstream drums beat rhythmically. Voices brought to life a song sung by their ancestors: a song asking forgiveness from the land and water.

  Jayavar held a float that he had made with Bona, the former slave boy whom he had saved and who had saved him. On several recent occasions, after meeting with his officers and discussing strategy, Jayavar had sought out Bona. The two unlikely companions had sat near a crook in the river and created their float together. While doing so they had spoken of topics that Bona understood and embraced—the jungle, its creatures, and the beauties abounding in Kbal Spean. In some ways, Bona reminded Jayavar of his children, and he felt at peace when he was with the boy. They smiled and occasionally even shared a laugh. Jayavar had begun to care for Bona and to devise plans that would ensure his survival and ultimate happiness.

  “It is time,” Jayavar said finally, prompting a group of men and women who held larger candles to move from child to child, lighting their floats. Of all the children, Bona was nearest to Jayavar. He smiled though his hands were empty.

  Jayavar walked to the center of the platform, his pulse quickening, his convictions gathering and strengthening like storm clouds. He had rehearsed his speech alone in the jungle, speaking out loud, wanting to get the words just right. For once he hadn’t shared his thoughts with Ajadevi. He hoped to surprise her, and to please both Khmers and Siamese.

  He bowed to the people downstream, held his float high above him, and nodded. When he spoke next, he did so deeply, projecting his voice far into the night. “If, my friends, I told you that somewhere in the universe there lies a world where colors dazzle the eye, where the air is sweet and fragrant, what would you say?”

  Murmurs rose along the river’s edge. People were not used to being asked questions by their king and they were unsure how to reply. Seeing the uncertainty on the faces downstream from her, Ajadevi smiled, encouraging more responses.

  “If,” Jayavar continued, “I told you that somewhere in the universe this world exists, and has magical creatures that fly beneath a golden sun and is filled with endless water and valleys and mountains, what would you say?”

  The replies were louder this time—responses offered by men and a few women.

  Jayavar smiled. “And what if I told you that this world is pure and beautiful and perfect? That stars sparkle like diamonds in the night? That life rises and falls and yet rises again? Would you think that this world is too good to be true? Would you believe that this world is nothing more than a dream? Or would you pray to be delivered into it?”

  A young girl called out, “I want to run across this world!” Her words prompted many smiles. “Can I?” she asked her king.

  “But, my child,” Jayavar replied, “you already run across this world, because the place I speak of is here. We stand within it now. We savor its beauties each day. We smell flowers, walk beneath trees, drink water that flows down from mountains. This world, which is unique in all the universe, lies directly beneath our feet. It is our home.”

  People laughed and clapped their hands.

  Jayavar gestured for Bona to approach. Together they held their float still as a woman lighted it. “Because we are tenants of this world, we must protect it,” Jayavar continued. “And for the trees we have felled, for the water we have dirtied, for the plants and creatures we have eaten, for the air we have sullied, we must ask forgiveness. So this is what we do tonight. We place our floats in this river and ask that the earth forgive us for our defilement.”

  Dropping slowly to their knees, Jayavar and Bona lowered their lighted float into the water. They released it gently. The current gathered up the offering, spinning it, then pulling it downstream. People cheered. Jayavar straightened, thanked Bona, and gestured for the other children to come to the platform and release their floats. He stepped aside to allow them room. Bona bowed, grinned, and headed downstream. Ten children hurried forward, set their lighted floats into the river, and then crossed the platform so that another ten children could do the same. This process went on as floats drifted down the river, each resembling a shimmering star in the blackness, a star that moved and twisted. Along both sides of the shoreline Khmers and even some Siamese applauded the floats, which varied in size and ornamentation according to each child’s tastes.

  When the last float was placed in the river, the celebration began in earnest. People cheered, clapped, and sang. Children splashed in the shallows while adults sipped rice wine from bamboo containers. The
floats continued to flicker and shimmer, partly illuminating the figures of Vishnu and Shiva carved on nearby boulders.

  Ajadevi moved closer to Jayavar, taking his arm in hers, smiling as the last of the floats rounded a corner of the river and children began to run along the shoreline, chasing them. “You’re right about this world,” she said. “In all the universe there may be only one such place, and we should not take it for granted.”

  “I could say the same about you,” he replied, turning to her. “Except that I would say it with certainty.”

  She smiled. “Remember our first Festival of Floats? Yours tipped and foundered.”

  “While yours sailed past?”

  “I think you were trying to impress me with the sight of so many flowers placed upon it.”

  “When have I ever not tried to impress you?”

  Cheers arose from around the bend. Jayavar’s smile faded, and Ajadevi wondered if he was thinking about his children. They had always delighted in this night, just as he had been forever beside them, helping to create and launch their floats. “Do you hear them?” she asked.

  “The children?”

  “Your children.”

  He glanced upward toward a slice of starlit sky. “Every so often in my dreams they speak to me. And from these dreams I never want to awaken. Yet Bona did find me. Sometimes I think that they sent him to me, that they dwell in him. I see glimpses of them in his smile, in the way he moves his small hands as he speaks, like Chivy did when she was trying to make a point.”

  Ajadevi smiled and kissed him again, then guided him to a sitting position at the edge of the platform, so that their feet dangled into the water. “Tonight’s festival is more important than ever.”

  “Why?”

  “Because soon we’ll wage war on our enemies, and nothing pollutes the earth like war. Soon we shall have much to ask forgiveness for.”

  He nodded. “In a few days all the Siamese mercenaries will be here, and then we must march.”

  “When you march, Jayavar, when you lead, you must do so as a king.”