by John Burgess
I rubbed them. ‘Bopa, these stones may give you discomfort, but try to endure it. They have holy origins.’
She made as if to listen, though I knew her feet were a bigger concern.
‘When our lord the monkey general Hanuman was looking for medicine to cure a sickness afflicting the brother of Rama, he overturned entire mountains in his search and left the stones underneath them exposed. So those stones are holy – they have been placed in our sight by Hanuman himself.’
She rubbed her toes. ‘How is it possible to overturn an entire mountain?’
‘These things a god can do. Otherwise, how would it be possible to see so many stones?’
After forty minutes and two more stops, we reached the top. By a weathered wooden gate, we were greeted by the abbot, an ancient man with a sunken chest. He put hands together: ‘It is an honour to receive you, Lady Sray, wife of His Majesty’s parasol master.’ His speech was unclear; he was missing most of his teeth.
I was winded but did my best to give a gracious reply, ending with an expression of hope that the visit did not inconvenience our host. He replied that there was no such possibility. Then we all walked in silence along the remainder of the trail, which here was mercifully flat. He hobbled, and I understood why he had not come down the hill to greet us. He might never descend from this place again, in fact.
We passed a small wooden shrine, which in former days would have been as close as my daughter and I could have approached. Then ahead, atop a final rise, we caught sight of triple towers, each topped by a large stone lotus. This was our destination, Trinity Temple, its holy grounds marked off by a chest-high wall of laterite.
‘It is from the Fourth Reign, Lady,’ the abbot said proudly, pausing. ‘Our lord the monarch of that time favoured Heaven’s wishes and built his holy edifices atop natural hills. This one stands at the very peak of what I believe is the tallest of those hills, so its spires reach closer to Heaven than those of any temple in the Empire. It is small by the standards of Angkor, but that size gives a rather intimate feel to anyone who worships at it. And the style is old, yes, but we like that too. It is somehow more pleasing than the newer ones....’
‘I share your opinion, Abbot. It is beautiful, touched by the hand of time.’
We walked closer. ‘We do our best on maintenance, of course, but...’ Even from here, stones could be seen to have fallen away, weeds to have taken root high in the towers.
The sergeant hung back, no doubt thinking that this was the Lady’s time.
The abbot led my daughter and me first to large jars of water, hidden behind a weathered rattan screen near the east gate. He left us. We bathed, emerging fit for the prayers to come.
‘Please enter, then, Lady Sray – step over the moonstone and enter holy ground.’
First he led us in a devotional procession around all three towers. Then we knelt at the base of nine weathered steps that led to the chamber of the centre tower, Shiva’s abode. I lit incense that had been laid out for us. I did the same at the other two towers, honouring Vishnu at the right hand one and Brahma on the left. Then the abbot showed the way out the compound’s west gate.
‘Look to your feet, if you would, Lady Sray,’ he said. ‘The moonstone on this side is the living rock of the hill.’
‘It is rock that our lord Hanuman himself has unearthed?’
‘It was that way, Lady.’
I looked down at it, but then my eyes rose and I became aware that from this spot I had a clear view outward. For a moment, I do believe my breath came to a stop.
Never in my life had I been so high, and I felt all of a sudden that I knew what it was to be the Bird God Garuda and fly across the sky. Below, the Freshwater Sea showed itself broad and peaceful, taking in the warmth of the midday sun, spanning further than I thought possible, so far that in places the sky came down and caressed its edges. Far off to the right was solid land, some of it covered with jungle, like before the time the gods had placed humans on earth. To the left was land that showed the straight lines and corners of paddy cultivation. Land and water looked entirely different and I knew that there were seasons when they battled each other, water advancing into the land, and then, as now was the case, land into the water. Neither ever overpowers the other. They belong in this conjunction, they depend upon each other.
The old priest was finding pleasure in my silent awe. He had seen it in many visitors, I’m sure.
When I was done and turned back to him, he said: ‘You can understand, Lady, why we know this is a holy mount.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, reflective. ‘Heaven’s creation, laid out for all to see.’
The priest waited a respectful moment, then said: ‘Many people should have the chance to experience this, don’t you believe?’
‘Why, yes.’
‘But we have hardly any sleeping places for pilgrims anymore!’ The old man was suddenly animated. ‘Look there, if you would.’ He gestured toward wooden posts that stood upright in rows, planted in the ground. ‘Those once supported guesthouses for pilgrims. Twenty different houses. A storm came three years ago and blew them away. We have only one left, that one down the hill there a bit – can you see it? People hear about this, that there’s no place for a group to sleep up here, and they don’t come. They hear too that the trail has been washed away and think they’d better not attempt it, it will be too hard, especially for old people, old people who may be near the passage to the next life and need most of all the spiritual comfort of a place like this.’
‘It’s a pity.’
‘Yes. A pity. We have tried to raise money for repairs, but we...we are not clever at such things.’
I could sense his meaning, as I’m sure you can. But I was not offended. I had more than money enough by then.
The abbot took us all to a small pavilion. The novice arrived with a tray from an unseen kitchen and placed rice, fish and greens before us. The sergeant waited outside, hanging back again, but I told him he must come have rice as well.
The abbot watched as we ate – as a man in holy orders, he would take nothing until the evening. After a while, he asked about life beyond his hill. I told him of a new monastery being constructed outside the Capital.
‘And the wars? We have heard there is a new war against the Chams.’
The sergeant saw it was his place to reply to this. ‘Yes, there is such an action. Three months ago, His Majesty led our armies into two Cham provinces. He destroyed the enemy forces there and brought the provinces into our Empire. Our borders on the east are now secure.’
‘War is always unfortunate,’ the abbot observed. ‘But…have we, may I ask, taken a lot of prisoners?’
‘Quite a few,’ the sergeant replied. The old priest seemed to welcome that. Perhaps he wondered if some might be sent here as labourers.
At meal’s end, we all rose, then stepped outside for good-byes. But there I was visited with an idea. ‘Abbot, my daughter and I are meant to stay in an inn in the port, but how would you feel if we spent the night up here? In that one guesthouse that is still standing.’
Bopa looked a bit askance, and the old priest did too. If we were going to stay, he would have wanted to have time to prepare.
‘It’s quite primitive, Lady,’ he countered. ‘You deserve better.’
‘If a soul is to obtain any benefit from a night at a place like this, if any merit is to be acquired, the lodging should be primitive. Is it not so?’
He nodded at the logic of that, and told the novice to go find mats and mosquito netting.
The sergeant stepped forward. ‘Lady, you’re sure you’ll be all right up here?’
‘Yes, we’ll be fine. We remember how to get by in humble circumstances.’
I looked to see if he would find any meaning in that, but he showed no sign.
‘Then, with your permission, I’ll return to my men, Lady,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in the morning to see you down.’
I talked on with the abbot and was touched by his devot
ion to this place, and his hapless inability to organize repairs.
Late in the afternoon, he led me and my daughter to the guesthouse and bid us good night. Inside, mats and nets had been laid out already, as promised, along with an oil lamp, burning, and a jug of drinking water. Bopa laid down immediately; the walk up the hill had left her tired.
‘A little adventure for us, daughter, staying in this place,’ I said, patting her wrist. She smiled; this was not her choice, but she was willing to give it a try.
I sat for a while, then walked alone back to the old temple’s courtyard. I was pleased to find it deserted. I would pray at the tower of Vishnu, that god who shows pity on humankind, coming to earth to rescue us from evil times. I went to my knees and lit incense from a pot of glowing coals. Holding a stick between the fingers of joined hands, I cleared my mind as best I could of all selfish concerns. Then I began.
You are the beginning, the middle, and the end, of all that lives.
With one single fraction of your Being, you pervade and support the universe.
You are unending time.
You are the ordainer who faces all ways,
You are death that destroys,
You are the source of all that is to be.
You are the diceplay of the gamester,
You are victory, you are courage,
You are the goodness of the virtuous.
You are the silence of what is secret,
You are the knowledge of those who know,
You are the seed of all that is born.
The search for the Absolute – how much simpler it had been when I had just the gleam in an elephant’s eye to guide me, the scent of a burning stick of incense. Now I had also the holy texts, such as these words, which of course come from Lord Krishna’s battlefield sermon to Prince Arjuna. Have you ever found that on first reading, verse like this can seem as clear as water in a well? But so quickly after that, doubt and uncertainty can come crowding in? My ever-patient instructor novice might offer one view of the meaning, a palm-leaf commentary something else, the Brahmin Subhadra a third approach altogether different. And still another teacher might say that the meaning was not so much in the meaning, but in sounds and cadence. He would counsel that it was necessary only to hear the words again and again to absorb their wisdom. Analysing their meaning could lead down false paths. The words of the texts were not like words that humans use, I was told. Rather, each was a gift from Heaven, perfect in itself, existing to convey a state of mind, if only the mind would be receptive.
I often despaired that the search was beyond my frail spirit’s ability. But I continued. I found sometimes that going to new places helped set me on a course, and so I had assigned myself the task of stopping at every place of spiritual discovery that I passed on my travels. There, sometimes, holy words could fuse with setting, time and that sweet scent of incense to move my consciousness toward the sublime.
And this was such a time, kneeling at the stone steps to Vishnu’s tower, on a hilltop touched by Hanuman, helpmate of Vishnu’s avatar Rama, with words uttered by Krishna.
I rose. My worries about the King had vanished; my presence here, my every breath and footstep, insignificant though they were, seemed in harmony with that point which the great cosmic engine had reached in its eternal motions, its cycles of creation and destruction.
I passed out of the courtyard, crossing the moonstone cut from living rock, and came again into the great open place. A breeze stirred my hair, as if it had been awaiting my arrival. The waning sun was halfway hiding behind hills that ended the marshland to the west. I knelt, oblivious to the advance of time as the sky above the disc turned from yellow brightness to rich reds and oranges, then to brooding greys and finally the full, pure darkness of night.
I picked my way back to the guesthouse.
‘Oh mother, this mat is so thin. How am I going to sleep?’ Bopa spoke from inside a mosquito net.
‘Don’t worry, daughter. There are places where it’s harder to sleep than this one. But here, take my mat.’ There was a pause, then my girl’s hand extended from the net.
For myself I spread a krama on the wooden floor. There was another silence, then words from Bopa.
‘You’re not using your net?’
‘No, daughter. I like the open air....And when I was a girl, I was told that a bite or two builds character. I suppose that explanation was in part to make virtue out of necessity, because there wasn’t money for nets. In any case, we all did think we’d have very hard lives. That’s not been so, has it? But it feels good sometimes to think that maybe I did get a bit of the character for one.’
I awoke before dawn to the sounds of the temple’s chimes. I lay still, as traces of light appeared in the patch of sky that showed beyond the door.
My opening thought was: I’ll find the money to replace the lost guesthouses, all of them. With Heaven’s help, they will be so strong that no storm will ever blow them away again.
25: A proposal of business
After morning rice, Bopa and I knelt before the abbot. He splashed us with holy water, which cooled our heads and shoulders and seemed to carry into our souls the words that he chanted.
May your minds be drawn always and only to merit. May you be pre-eminent in knowledge, virtue and deeds, yet remain without pride.
The sergeant led us down the hill, calling our attention to thorns and loose stones on the trail, taking our hands firmly when the footing was rough.
At the bottom, by the oxcart, two groups were waiting. One was the guard detail, bathed and ready for a new day’s duty. The other was a cluster of prosperous-looking men, all facing our way, hands together in greeting.
‘Might we have a word with the Lady?’ asked one of them in the politest of tones. He wore a sampot, but in most every other way, he was a foreigner: pale skin, body tall and wiry, speech somewhat hard to understand.
‘Well, yes, of course. What can I do for you?’
‘Might you allow us to show you and your daughter a bit of hospitality? It’s not much, but the best our little community can offer.’
I smiled wearily. This was of course a delegation of Chinese merchants from the port. No matter that I’d tried to come here unnoticed; word would have spread overnight that I was passing the night up at the temple.
The man introduced himself as Chen the rice miller. Then he led us down the port’s main street, past wooden warehouses, a trader’s office, a dock where slaves unloaded straw-wrapped bundles from a boat riding low in the water. The sergeant trailed behind.
We came to something which stood out, a large brick building painted in the brightest red. It had a tile roof with curving eaves. Mr Chen noticed my surprise. ‘It was created in the style of houses in our homeland,’ he explained. ‘We like Khmer houses, but we sometimes get homesick for what we grew up in. It’s the office of our Chamber of Commerce.’
We passed through the round entranceway, Mr Chen making a single clap to signal unseen servants. Inside, in a large, airy room, he took some time pointing out to us a polished wooden chest from his country, a celadon jar, a hanging drape that bore large characters of Chinese writing. Then he showed us to a second room, where on a low table servants were setting out a generous selection of pork and chicken, bamboo shoots, peppers, spinach, rice, all cooked in the Chinese style. The other men followed, and together we all sat down. Mr Chen offered another welcome and thanks to Heaven. We began to eat.
After thirty minutes, Mr Chen got to the point. ‘We would like to make a proposal, Lady Sray,’ he said. ‘All of us here, as a group. Word has reached us that you supervise the purchase of various supplies for the palace. And we imagine that you obtain these from the wholesale merchants in the central market. Would that be correct?’
‘Why yes, it is.’
‘Did you know, Lady Sray,’ he said, taking on a confidential tone, ‘that before the goods reach the city they pass through the hands of three different sets of distributors, each taking
a cut of the final price?’
I of course knew that very well. How else would things get to the Capital?
‘Lady Sray, we would like to make a proposal. We can provide quite a selection of goods. Mr Feng here deals in fresh and preserved meats, Mr Cho trades in honey and palm sugar. As I have told you, I myself am engaged in rice milling. The Chinese merchant community has its own boats, which ply the Freshwater Sea and go up and down canals and rivers to reach villages. We buy right at the source, wherever it may be. We also have ships that sail the Great Dual Vector River from the Salt Water Sea to bring in goods from China, a very full selection, whatever might be required. If you buy directly from us you will get a lower price, and the kind of service that comes only from friends. This is something the palace deserves, surely.’
I looked at Mr Chen. A pleasant feeling was coming over me, one I knew from the days when I was just Sray the duck egg vendor.
‘What price are you offering on rice today?’
‘Forty-four weight of silver per standard basketful.’
I laughed gently. ‘I’m a bit surprised, Mr Chen. That’s hardly different than what we pay in the Capital. And Heaven has allowed a good harvest this season. There’s so much supply.’
He made a pained face. ‘Yes, the harvest was good, but there’s been a special problem with storage, did you know? Too many beetles and mice. They’ve eaten about a quarter of the crop.’
‘In the Capital we’ve heard that the priests determined which spirit was causing the problem and said prayers that made it desist. The pests have mostly gone away. What do you think about a price of thirty-six weight?’
He made another face, this one meant to convey both sympathy for my request and its impossibility. ‘Lady Sray, may I suggest forty-two?’
I made a show of turning the figure over in my mind. ‘That would be the price you’d offer for sales in small quantities, I think. But we would be buying in bulk. The palace has more than four thousand people and each one eats rice every day. You can come down more, I would think. Say, to thirty-eight?’
