The King's Last Song

by Geoff Ryman

  That was more like it!

  White horses pranced, lifting their feet high, but holding to formation. Their riders rode on their unsaddled backs, hands on hips.

  Behind the horsemen came a ballistic elephant, a crossbow on its back. Its protecting infantry marched in rows alongside it.

  A third elephant followed, with a solid shell of wood over its back. Resting one foot outside the ornate howdah, a real warrior prince stood in full armour with a crown and a metal breastplate tied across his chest.

  Prince Nia squealed in delight, and leaned so far out of the howdah that he nearly fell.

  Soldiers trooped past. These were nobles. They wore flower-cloth chemises and their topknots were held in metal tiaras in the shape of totemic beasts: eagles or tigers or deer, which showed that they were fast, or fierce.

  More horses wheeled past, white like falling water. The Prince's military heart danced. Then, oh! Their riders stood up and pulled back their bows and let loose flaming arrows. They arched up into the blue sky over the southern moat.

  Nia was beside himself. He yelled and shouted and pummelled the shoulders of the bigger boys next to him. Suddenly affectionate, they laughed with him, pleased by his fervour, sharing it.

  "Steady, Little Warrior,” one of them chuckled.

  The other rocked him by the shoulders. “You will have your chance of battle soon enough."

  The little prince cried aloud. “We are the soldiers of the world! We are the warriors of the Gods!"

  Some of the troops heard him, and they waved and smiled. The sun was in the sky at the same time as a pale daylight moon. Auspicious or what?

  The soldiers passed and boring high-rankers followed. Women reclined in carved palanquins. Fly whisks and fans replaced swords. The elephants had a bit more glitter, but who cared? Glitter does not need skill.

  One elephant, bigger than the rest, heaved its way through the fog of dust. The howdah was a bit bigger than most too. An old man wearing a temple-tower tiara stood up in the howdah with all the usual stuff. He had a lean, pinched face like an old woman.

  It was not until the man had passed with a forest of parasols and nothing further followed that Prince Hereditary Slave realized: that must have been the King. That old man had been Sun Shield, Suryavarman. The King, it seemed, was just another soldier.

  The dust settled, but the thought remained.

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  April 11, 2004

  Luc Andrade steps down a little stiffly from a white Toyota pickup.

  He feels thin-legged and pot-bellied. Too old really for beige Gap jeans and blue tennis shoes. Out in front of him stretch the plains of Cambodia.

  Luc sighs. He loves the heat, the silver sky, and the wild flowers clustering in the shade. The palm trees always remind him of Don Quixote with his lance—tall, stretched thin, and riding off into the blue distance. And perhaps of himself.

  In the back of the pickup truck, Map and two of his friends from the Patrimony Police are gathering up tents and rifles. Mr. Yeo Narith steps out of the cab. Luc has spent a lifetime reading Cambodian smiles and Narith's wan, tight smile is still angry.

  No one is supposed to excavate anywhere in the precincts of Angkor without an APSARA representative being present. APSARA defends the interests of the artifacts and the monuments. They contend with tourist agencies, art thieves, airways passing too near the monuments, or museums in Phnom Penh—interests of all kinds. The last thing APSARA needs is to find it cannot trust its archaeological partners.

  "Allons-y,” says Luc. Narith is of the generation who finds it easier to speak French. He nods and extends an arm for Luc to precede him down the bank.

  Out in the field, the contractor is guarding his find, next to a motorcycle and William, the spare driver.

  Luc skitters a little awkwardly down into the field. Underfoot, the harvested rice crackles like translucent plastic straws.

  It's April, the end of the dry season and horribly hot. Luc is Director of the United Nations archaelogical project. Most of his UN dig team have gone home, except for one Canadian excavator and Sangha, the Cambodian dig manager. Work is normally finished by the end of March, but the project might not get financing for next year. Since the JPL/NASA overhead flights four years ago gave them a radar map of the old road and canal system, their trench has uncovered one unremarkable stone yoni and nothing else.

  A white sheet is spread out on the ground, and rocks and earth are lined up in order along it. Village children squat, peering at the stones. As Luc approaches, the contractor and William the driver stand up. The children chew the bottoms of their torn T-shirts. The contractor from the university hangs his head and kicks the white dust.

  So, thinks Luc, he came out here with William and took a risk. The augur, a long slim white tube a bit like a hunting stick, lies abandoned. The contractor grasps two full lengths of pipe. God knows how he got the augur that deep in all this dry ground. William probably sat on the handles.

  The contractor is called Sheridan. He's a microbiologist, out here to identify where he will core in the rainy season. Like Luc, he works at the Australian National University. The UN dig has paid for only four days of his time.

  Sheridan launches into his apologies. They sound heartfelt, but Luc shakes his head. “I still don't understand how it happened. You know the rules."

  "I knew this was where a bridge crossed a canal. The ground was still very wet, and I thought: why not just do a test, see if this will be wet enough in rainy season...” His voice lowers. “I was trying to save you money."

  At least he hasn't laid the gold out on the ground for the village children to see. They walk back towards the pickup to look at the find.

  At the top of the embankment, Map guards the truck. Map jokes with someone, an old farmer. The farmer has a face Luc has often seen in Cambodian men of that age. The eyes are sad and insolent all at once. The man glares at Luc over half-moon spectacles and stalks away. Map shakes his head and calls, “Hey, Luc!” then surfs down the embankment on his heavy police boots.

  "Oh-ho, is that guy ever unhappy with me. He came and said this is his field and we can't stay.” Map strolls companionably alongside Luc. “I told him to go buy a mirror and practise smile. I said that you guys find something that Cambodians can't use—knowledge.” Map claps his hands together. “He used to be my CO in the Khmers Rouges, and he didn't like me then either."

  Map outrages people. He drives the APSARA guides crazy by stealing their business. He exasperates the Tourist Police by taking elderly foreigners to stay in country farmhouses. A single red cotton thread barricades his wrists with some kind of magic and his long fingernails are a mottled white like the inside of oyster shells. Luc once wondered if Map was an exorcist, a kru do ompoeu. Map told him that he uses the fingernails for fighting, “like knife."

  But he takes good photographs, speaks French, English, and German, and knows HTML.

  Inside the cab of the pickup, away from the village children, Sheridan reaches into his rucksack and takes out a disk about twice the size of a silver dollar, dull yellow with crinkled cookie-cutter edges. Luc sees Sanskrit.

  Gold. Writing. From Angkor.

  "We've got to excavate as soon as we can,” Luc says to Narith. Narith then telephones. They already knew they were going to have to camp out all night to guard the find. Mr. Yeo asks for more police, with guns.

  Outside, the old farmer marches up and down the dike. Wind blows dust up around him, Map, all of them, like the smoke of war.

  * * * *

  They dig through the long afternoon.

  The walls of the tent run with condensed sweat. Luc, two volunteers from the Japanese dig, and Jean-Claude from Toronto are crouched inside a trench, brushing away dirt.

  Slowly, rows of packets wrapped in linen are emerging.

  "Meu Deus!” mutters Jean-Claude. For some reason he always swears in Portuguese. He gestures towards the packets. “There's at least ten packets there
,” he says to Luc, in French. “Ten to a packet, that's one hundred leaves."

  They've found a book. An Angkorean book made of gold.

  Map darts from side to side, taking photographs from many angles.

  William, the motoboy, leans over the trench, looking forlorn. Luc can't let him leave in case he tells anyone about the find. He's trapped here. He knows that.

  Luc pulls himself out of the trench and gets cold Cokes from the chest. He passes one to William.

  "What we're trying to do,” Luc explains to William in Khmer, “is to get as much information as we can about the earth around the object. See the side of the trench? See, it's in layers, white soil, brown soil, then black soil? That will tell us a lot about when the leaves were buried."

  William dips and bows and smiles.

  Map intervenes. “Hey, Luc. You think we should take the book out of those packets and photograph it here?"

  Luc shakes his head. “No. The packets will have information too. We could photograph what the augur pulled up. The disks."

  The ten torn disks are laid out on the ground. The gold is brown, thicker than paper, but not by much. A light slants sideways across their surfaces, to make the incisions clearer.

  Luc can read them.

  The text comes in torn snatches across the face of the ten disks. Luc's breath feels icy as he reads.

  ...who conserves perpetuity...

  ...men seek for heaven and its deliverance...

  ...the ninth day of the moon...

  "We have a saka date,” Luc announces. The Japanese volunteers stand up to hear. Luc is so skilled at this that he can do the conversion to the European calendar in his head. The text is about a consecration in 1191 ad.

  "It's twelfth century. The time of Jayavarman Seven."

  "One hundred leaves from the time of Jayavarman?” Even Yeo Narith rocks back on his feet. Map looks up, his face falling.

  "Plus que ça," mutters Jean-Claude inside the trench. He holds out his hands as if at a Mass. He has brushed aside all the loam. Inside his trench, lined up in rumpled, pitch-coated linen, are fifteen packets of ten leaves each. “Plus there is one smaller packet to the side,” he says.

  One hundred and fifty leaves of gold?

  Art gets stolen in Cambodia. It gets chopped up, incorporated into fakes, shipped across the world, sold by unscrupulous dealers. If it's gold, it might get melted down.

  Luc turns to Yeo Narith. “Who do we trust in the army?"

  * * * *

  William can't go home.

  It's late at night. The tent glows in the middle of the field like a filament.

  Around a campfire, William and Map face each other. Working for the same boss, they should be polite and friendly with each other, but Map won't even look at William.

  Many other people sit drinking coffee: Dik Sangha, officials from APSARA, Map's captain from the Patrimony Police, and a friend of Teacher Andrade's from the École Française d'Extrême Orient whose name William keeps trying to catch. Patrimony Police stand guard round the field. They've already stopped people with shovels and metal detectors.

  Map cradles his gun. He's been sipping beer all evening and his face is bright red. He grins and tells unsuitable stories.

  William is mystified. Teacher Andrade trusts Map and gives him responsibility. Map knows about the Internet and a lot about the monuments. He could teach these things to William, but he won't.

  William thinks: when I started to work for Teacher Andrade, you were friendly. Now you won't talk to me or even look at me. I've done nothing to you.

  Map is talking in English. “So my older brother and me go to shoot the Vietnamese. They have a big ammo dump behind the Grand Hotel. And my older brother Heng is crazy man. You think I'm crazy, you should see Heng. He strap grenade launcher to his wrist. One launcher on each arm. He fires both at the same time, kapow, kapow. I hear him breaking his wrist. But he keep shooting, shooting. I say, Older Brother, you are a crazy guy. Then all that Vietnamese ammo goes up, huge big fire, and I have to drag Heng home."

  Map pauses. His eyes get a wild look to them.

  "He died of Sweet Water Disease. Diabetes. Nobody give him insulin."

  Another sip of beer, a shaking of the head.

  We are not tourists, William thinks. There is nothing you can get from us by telling sad stories, over and over, boasting about your wars.

  "I went to look for my parents, all that time. I look all over Cambodia. I have to go AWOL to do it. And it turned out they are dead since the Lon Nol era."

  William has noted that Map's sad stories do not add up. He also tells a story in which his uncle tells Map when he is twelve that his parents are dead and Map goes to hide in a haystack. Both cannot be true.

  There is something wrong with Map's head.

  "Cambodian joke,” says Map and grins. He is so ugly, thinks William. He has a big mouthful of brown teeth that push out his jaw, his nose is sunken, and his face is covered in purple lumpy spots.

  Map tells a story about a truck driver who has to stay in a farmer's house. He sleeps in the same room as the farmer's daughter. The truck driver gets to do everything he wants to with the daughter. In the morning the farmer asks, did you sleep well? The truck driver says, yes, your daughter is very beautiful, but her hands are so cold! Ah, says the farmer and looks sad, that is because she is awaiting cremation.

  Map roars with laughter and pummels his foot on the dust. He looks at Teacher Andrade's frozen smile and laughs even louder.

  William shakes his head. He says in Khmer, “That is not a good story to tell someone like Teacher Andrade. What will he think of us?"

  "He will think we tell funny stories."

  "He will think we are not respectable."

  Map still won't look at him. “He knows more than you do."

  William shrugs. “He is a great teacher and of course knows more than I do."

  "You know nothing.” Map lights a cigarette.

  William has had some beer too and his tongue is loose. “Why don't you talk respectfully to me? If I have done something wrong, you should tell me what it is, so I can correct it."

  Map sneers. “Monks tell you that?” He finally looks at William.

  "Yes."

  "You're so peaceful,” says Map, smiling slightly. He sits back, inhales and watches. “I do all the fighting, you have all the getting. I march for forty years, you go to school. You have a pretty girlfriend, I have no family."

  "My mother and father are dead,” says William.

  Map is silenced and looks away. His face closes up like a snail going into a shell and he coughs. He says nothing for a very long time.

  William believes in connection. It is how he survives, and he is good at it because he practises on people whom no one else can reach.

  All right, thinks William. I promise. I promise that you will be my friend. I will have your name and history in my notes, and you will know my family. We will celebrate New Year together.

  There is a rumble of trucks in the dark. All the Europeans stand up. The Patrimony Police lift up their rifles. The trucks stop, their brilliant headlights go off, and a full colonel strides down the bank towards them. His lieutenant follows.

  The Colonel holds up his hand and greets Yeo Narith as if they are old friends. William's ears prick up; he does not know this colonel. He must be from somewhere other than Siem Reap. The lieutenant is Sinn Rith, a man William knows is far too rich to have earned all his money from soldiering.

  Teacher Andrade trusts these people?

  In Banteay Chmar, it was the army itself that stole the bas-reliefs.

  They enter the light of the fire and Tan Map grins.

  "Lieutenant-Colonel Sinn Rith! My old friend!” Map cackles with glee.

  Sinn Rith is impassive behind his sunglasses. He mutters in Khmer, thinking the Europeans won't understand. “The Frenchman's brought his dog."

  Whew! William has to expel breath. They hate Map. What's he done? Sinn Rit
h fingers the handle of his pistol. Map's captain looks alarmed, eyes flickering between them.

  The Colonel's polite smile does not falter. He ignores Map and greets the scholars, shakes their hands, and says how privileged he feels to be asked to help protect such a treasure. Can they view the find?

  Still grinning, Map leaps to his feet. “I am the dig photographer, I do the UN dig Web site,” he says, every word directed at Sinn Rith. “It would be an honor, Colonel, to explain the finds."

  He is so rude! The man has no shame. He is humiliating everybody, making them look small. Dik Sangha, the Cambodian dig director, is smiling but he's shaking his head. Map swaggers his way in, laughs, and claps Sinn Rith on the shoulder.

  Sinn Rith flings off his hand.

  Inside the tent, the Colonel has to exclaim over the packets. “So many!"

  "We actually think it's written by Jayavarman himself,” says Yeo Narith. Luc explains. The Sanskrit text uses first person. It seems to be memoir. By the King himself.

  The Colonel shakes his head. “For such a thing to come to the nation now. It is a gift from heaven."

  The lamps baste the interior of the tent; it is roasting and airless. Back outside Map sits down and says to William, “Hey motoboy, go get me a beer."

  Teacher Andrade says gently to William. “Perhaps the officers would like one as well, William."

  It gives William something to do. He sompiahs and makes himself look lively.

  Even inside the tent, getting the beers, he listens to the debate.

  The army, it seems, want the Book to stay in Siem Reap. William thinks: the generals all own hotels, they want a museum here for the tourists.

  The archaeologists say the Book needs to be repaired. It should go to the National Museum in Phnom Penh.

  "Is it safe anywhere?” the French archaeologist asks.

  Map takes his beer from William without even looking at him. He smiles and says, “The army want to take care of the Book to earn merit to make up for all the people they killed."