by Di Morrissey
Natalie is a young Gold Coast mother with a loving husband, two small children and a happy lifestyle. While helping her mother move house, she finds a little box containing a Burmese artefact. When Natalie learns its unique history through a letter left by her great-great uncle, it ignites an interest in its country of origin and her uncle’s unfulfilled plans for this curio.
Her investigations collide with her own dramatically changing circumstances and create a catalyst for a moral dilemma that challenges the core of her marriage as she finds herself immersed in two very different golden lands.
Contents
Cover
About The Golden Land
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About Di Morrissey
Also by Di Morrissey
Copyright Page
To Daw Aung San Suu Kyi for her steadfast and moral leadership that has inspired the world.
And to the people of Myanmar as they begin their journey towards their dream of freedom and democracy for their beautiful country.
While this book is a work of fiction, it is inspired by actual events and people in Burma such as Aung San Suu Kyi; her father, the late General Aung San; members of the former royal family, King Thibaw and Queen Supayalat and the military leader, General Ne Win.
1885 – Burma
IN THE COOL SHADOWS of the high-ceilinged wooden monastery the young monk sat with bowed head, chewing his bottom lip as he painstakingly drew his stylus over the lacquered red square that lay on the floor in front of him. Occasionally he hitched his cotton robe back onto his shoulder, draping the folds over his lap, his bare brown feet protruding from the robe as he worked. He sat crosslegged, his brow furrowed in concentration. Chosen by the abbot of the monastery because of his exceptional artistic skills, he had been given the chance to decorate the sacred text of a kammavaca that was to be presented to the king himself.
Ye Aung’s talents had been discovered not long after his arrival at the monastery as an eight-year-old boy. His impoverished family had entrusted him into the care of the monastery in the hope that he would become a respected and learned monk. They, in return, could expect to gain merit for their sacrifice.
Ye Aung joined the long classes with other novice monks, learning to chant by heart the Buddhist canon in Pali, the ancient language that Buddha spoke. Many hours were also spent in prayer and meditation and reading the old texts held in the monastery. Through these texts Ye Aung learned about the life of the Buddha and legends and tales of the spirit world that hovered between myth and belief, as well as the history of the great kings of Burma.
Ye Aung was a quiet boy who was happy in his own company. When the other young monks played, chasing woven bamboo balls behind the long dining hall or flinging off their robes to dive and splash in the silky brown waters of the Irrawaddy River, Ye Aung would sit in the shade of a tree, gazing at the old monastery with its spacious corridors and high heavy doors, its sweeping tiered roof and tall, ornately carved spires held aloft by carved mythical creatures.
The teak of the buildings had turned dark grey over the century or more that the monastery had stood in the quiet, remote jungle clearing. The courtyard between the main building and the two smaller ones was made of fine white earth and was swept daily by the monks, whether the courtyard was sun-warmed or contained puddles shining in the monsoon rain. The buildings had a weathered, friendly appearance and a softness quite unlike the gilded pagodas and stupas that were scattered near the local villages and in the city of Mandalay.
This place was so peaceful that it might have appeared deserted if it weren’t for the constant flutter of deep red robes, draped over a line in the courtyard or from railings and windows to dry, or the low rumbling hum of chanted prayers that droned from within the monastery like a swarm of earnest bees.
Ye Aung had always seen pictures in his head and he wanted to transcribe the rich tapestry of stories from his lessons into delicate, detailed illustrations. He shyly told his teacher, Sayadaw, his ambition, and Sayadaw began to encourage him. Even though he had not had formal lessons, Ye Aung loved nothing better than to draw with a brush or stylus.
He shared his dormitory with other young monks. Each had a mat on the floor and a coverlet and used their folded robes as a pillow. A small box held their few personal items, which included a writing slate and copies of the Pali texts they learned to chant by heart.
Ye Aung liked to sit alone in his corner while the other boisterous boys let off steam outside. He enjoyed his solitude in the quiet room where the open wooden window shutters let in the warm breeze from the river. Here he drew tiny images adapted from all he saw around him: fantastic creatures, glorious flora, the beautiful birds and even the monks themselves. Sometimes he drew pictures of the spirit-world creatures, or the animals representing the different birth days.
Eventually Ye Aung graduated to creating kammavacas, sacred Buddhist texts written on treated palm leaves. The leaves were smoothed and smoked before the texts were written on them, with spaces left between some of the lines for intricate illustrations. When complete the leaves would be carefully joined together with silk cords and folded between lacquered pieces of bark. Sometimes the teak-bark covers were decorated with gold leaf.
Frequently kammavacas were commissioned by families and given to the monastery when a son entered the Buddhist order. The special palm-leaf manuscripts were then stacked in decorated boxes or wrapped in cloth and stored in the ornate library chest in the abbot’s quarters in the dim reaches of the inner sanctum of the monastery. Ye Aung’s family had been too poor to commission a kammavaca and the young boy hoped that by illustrating them for others as well as he could, he would be able to bring merit to his parents.
One day, Sayadaw called Ye Aung into the private sanctuary used by the senior monks. Here the older monks meditated and prayed, surrounded by relics, thangka hangings, figures of the Buddha and library chests holding palm-leaf manuscripts so old that few could still read the ancient script in which they were written.
Ye Aung was awed to be in this sanctuary and stood quietly, his head bowed, hands clasped beneath his robes as his teacher took a monk’s robe from a chest. Ye Aung knew the cloth was old the moment Sayadaw put it into his hands. His teacher then told the young boy that the robe had belonged to one of the monastery’s most respected and honoured monks. He explained that instead of using the usual palm leaf, pieces of this robe were sometimes used to make special kammavacas. First, the cloth would be covered with lacquer to become a smooth but pliant surface and then it would be cut into sections on which the monks would inscribe sacred texts. These cloth sections would then be joined together by narrow ribs of split and polished bamboo. Ye Aung would then illustrate the work with his drawings, using boiled black lacquer as ink.
‘May I ask to whom this special kammavaca is to be given?’ said Ye Aung.
Sayadaw smiled. ‘It is to be presented to King Thibaw.’
Being asked to work on this particular project weighed heavily on the shoulders of Ye Aung. As he worked he began to have an inkling that there was more in the text than simply Buddhist teachings. He asked Sayadaw to translate the meaning of the ancient Pali script but Sayadaw shook his head.
‘The old monks have special knowledge that they occasionally pass on, hoping that someone, somewhere, will be able to deciph
er what is hidden in the text. It’s a means of safekeeping.’
‘Like a secret?’
Sayadaw shrugged. ‘Yes, such as where certain relics, riches or objects to be venerated are hidden. Perhaps monastic traditions. Whoever can decipher the text will acquire special status, karma and enrichment.’
‘Can you read what’s written in this kammavaca?’ Ye Aung asked.
Sayadaw shook his head. ‘The senior monks each write only a part of the story. No-one is allowed to read all of the manuscript.’
‘Who knows the whole story?’ asked Ye Aung.
‘I cannot tell you,’ said Sayadaw.
Ye Aung did not know whether his learned teacher did not know the answer or simply would not tell him, so the young man asked if he could draw some white elephants in this kammavaca like the carved elephant figures at the base of the monastery steps.
Sayadaw smiled. ‘I’m sure the king would like that very much. The white elephants are sacred indeed.’
Ye Aung was worried that he had displeased the abbot when he was called to stand before the senior monk. But seeing the pleased expression on Sayadaw’s face as he stood nearby, he was reassured. Indeed, so pleased was the abbot with Ye Aung’s work that he gave his permission for the young monk to accompany the senior monks to Mandalay to present the completed kammavaca to the king.
In the cool of the early morning, led by the most senior monks, the holy men filed solemnly from the monastery, carrying their alms bowls. In his cotton shoulder bag the abbot carried the gift to the king that Ye Aung had spent many months helping to create. When Ye Aung saw the bag he smiled to himself, knowing what was in it and remembering his drawings of white elephants wearing jewelled necklaces and richly embroidered cloths with bands of gold around their tusks, walking beneath a gold-tasselled white canopy, escorted by musicians and magicians.
The monks walked for days through villages, pausing at food stalls and houses where they were given water and food. Once they passed the bodies of two dacoits who had been crucified on a hillside as punishment for raiding a local village. Ye Aung shuddered when he saw them and quickly averted his eyes, although he admitted to himself that the villagers had the right to protect themselves from such bandits. Knowing that lawlessness abounded in the countryside, he felt safer when the monks arrived on the outskirts of Mandalay.
The closer they got to the royal palace, the more crowded the roads became, not just with people but also with dozens of pigs jostling around them.
‘King Mindon, who came before King Thibaw, fed a thousand pigs each day to earn merit but when he died they were abandoned,’ Sayadaw explained to Ye Aung.
The monks arrived at the expansive palace, crossed the wide moat on the fifth bridge, walked in single file through the grounds, past the watchtower, and were led to a beautiful, large pavilion. Inside, a carved wooden partition divided the cool and airy space into several reception rooms. The monks went into a small room to await the arrival of the king.
Ye Aung couldn’t stop looking at the throne, heavily decorated with intricate carvings, which sat at the end of the room, while, high above, the ceiling was painted with lavish scenes and spectacles from the life of King Mindon, who’d built the splendid palace.
When King Thibaw arrived, he did so modestly, without Queen Supayalat or any attendants but accompanied only by two of his young daughters. The princesses were dressed in silk longyi, full-length sarongs in brilliant colours with tight-fitting, long-sleeved silk blouses and jewelled flowers pinned at the side of their long, smooth hair. Ye Aung thought they looked like a pair of beautiful butterflies and he tried not to feel too prideful when the younger princess held the kammavaca for a moment before returning it to her father.
It was a short and formal meeting and, if not for the presence of the two princesses, a very dull event. After it was over, Ye Aung followed the older monks to the central shrine of the palace to offer appropriate prayers. He couldn’t help wondering if the king would study the pages of the kammavaca and notice his illustrations or if it would simply be placed in the royal library and forgotten. Nevertheless, he said a prayer for the wellbeing of the king and his family.
Within a month, there were dramatic changes in Mandalay that affected even the quiet life of the monastery. British troops had moved in from the coastal regions of Burma and travelled up the Irrawaddy River, marching through the villages and markets on their way to Mandalay Palace.
The novice monks were ordered to stay indoors while the senior monks spread out through the countryside to protect their shrines and relics. The invaders had no respect for the Burmese culture and took what they pleased. In the marketplaces, supplies of rice and staples were stretched and there were greatly reduced offerings for the monks on their daily rounds to the food stalls, shopkeepers and houses of devout townspeople. When they returned to the monastery their alms bowls were often empty.
Ye Aung asked Sayadaw about the welfare of the king and the royal court, especially the princesses. Sayadaw told him that the British had taken them away from the palace in bullock carts and sent them to live somewhere in India. The British were now in control of all Burma.
Eventually the abbot decided to find out for himself exactly what was happening in the city. But when he returned from Mandalay he was greatly distressed. He said that he had heard that the palace was now called Fort Dufferin after the Viceroy of India, and that the British officers were using it as their private club. Jewels had been plundered from it and the largest gemstones had been sent to Queen Victoria. The lavish Burmese throne was now in a museum in Calcutta.
Just before dawn several days later, a small fishing boat pulled into the landing below the monastery and a figure wrapped in monk’s robes hurried up the steps and along the path to the clearing where the monastery stood in the dark shadows.
Ye Aung stirred. Lying on his mat on the dormitory floor, he’d heard the splashing of an oar in the river, and now the soft brushing of footsteps hurrying up the stairs and the creak of the teak boards as the visitor walked swiftly along the outer corridor. Whispers were exchanged. Then Ye Aung heard the sounds of several more monks as they followed the visitor to the zayat, the pavilion in the grounds of the monastery that was used by the monks for meditation during the day and where visitors rested.
Ye Aung, now wide awake, was curious and he rose and walked quietly past the other sleeping boys and through the darkened rooms, slipping between the pillars of the main corridor, out through the tall carved doors and down the stone steps at the rear of the monastery.
He knew that eavesdropping was wrong but he also knew the monks were worried about the British. In the moonlight he saw senior monks sitting in a close circle on the floor of the pavilion, speaking softly. He didn’t dare go any closer so he turned and crept back to his place on the dormitory floor and hoped he’d learn more later.
Sayadaw didn’t disappoint him, taking him aside after morning meditation that day. From the look in his teacher’s eyes, Ye Aung suspected that he had either been heard or spotted creeping about the monastery the previous night.
Sayadaw looked serious as he began to explain. ‘There is much trouble in the city. Everyone is very distressed. The British soldiers burned the royal treasury.’
‘So are all the money and jewels gone?’ asked Ye Aung.
‘I believe that only some money was left. A lot has already been looted and the king took as much as he could in the short time he had before leaving Burma. It is said that he also arranged to have much of it hidden.’ Sayadaw shook his head. ‘But no, Ye Aung, that is not what has upset the monks so much. In the treasury were kept all the genealogical records of the hereditary nobility. These important records were inscribed on gold-bound palm-leaf manuscripts and wrapped in embroidered silk cloths.’
‘As beautiful as my one?’ said Ye Aung and Sayadaw gave a small smile.
‘Perhaps, but none would have the devotion and imagination you put into your work. And, sadly, the royal l
ibrary has also been looted and many precious books and records of our culture have also been destroyed.’
Ye Aung could only stare at Sayadaw in shock, imagining the thousands of manuscripts, many hundreds of years old, that must have been burned. ‘Why would the British soldiers do this?’ he whispered.
Sayadaw shrugged. ‘They want to impose their law. But they will not be here forever. We have been here for centuries, and one day these British will be forced to leave and we will again be ruled by our own wise and peaceful men.’
Ye Aung tried to remember the teachings of the Buddha and to forgive the ignorant soldiers who had caused such destruction, but he feared that the kammavaca he’d illustrated for the king had now been turned to ash. Suddenly he said, ‘If there was a secret in the script on the king’s kammavaca, it might be gone forever!’
‘Then its secret wasn’t meant to be found,’ said Sayadaw philosophically.
Ye Aung heard the chanting of the lessons begin as he scampered across the compound. He touched the carved elephant at the bottom of the steps to the monastery and whispered a swift prayer in the hope that by some blessed chance his special manuscript had survived.
1913
The late afternoon colours melted over the slick brown surface of the Irrawaddy. The tranquillity of the still river was broken by the chugging of the engine driving the large paddlewheels of the laden steamer as it churned towards Mandalay. On the polished teak open-air upper deck, in the section reserved for first-class passengers, pre-dinner drinks were being served. The dark-skinned Bengali boat crew of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company waited on the passengers, all of whom seemed to be British, as they reclined in their planters’ chairs, screened by tubs of palms, sipping their sundowners. The men, dressed in crisp whites, were discussing trading prices, the formation of a new British teak company, the continued growth of the Yenangyaung oilfields, their successful rice crops and news from home. In more subdued tones, they discussed the latest rumours of the continuing machinations of the exiled King Thibaw and his queen, still languishing in Ratnagiri in India.
