The King's Last Song

by Geoff Ryman

  Leaf 63

  I remember the face of the dying man. It was the face of a man who saw through the world, the face of a lover full of regret at parting. His high voice carried like the wind, saying to the category people: You have nothing. What is there in this life to keep you? If in dying you take two of them with you, then we will win. I will go in advance and be there to guide you into the palace of the earth. For the poor are beloved by the earth, all categories of people are beloved by me. He sank to his knees shivering as if on a cold morning. He fell asleep smiling. He had been made a spectacle to bolster a false priest, but I knew in my ancient soul that I had heard God speaking through him. Pray for him, sons of Kambu, transfer merit to him, for the Gods will know his name even if you do not.

  Leaf 64

  The dancing maidens are now still in my old heart. I want to pull that knife from the nia's chest, and help him to his feet. I would talk to him as one man speaks to another about the good crop of rice, the kind sunrise that is the flowering of Surya, the nurturing of livestock and the love of a wife and family. I would make that man my friend and together we would weave peace. Poor smiling man, I give you part of the merit earned by the great temple I built on the plain of that battle. May my donations to that temple earn merit for you. Now, in my old age, instead of commanding words in the stone, I cut them onto palm leaves. The merit of this book is transferred to all Khmers who die in battle, the sons of both kings and peasants, and particularly those who die in wars against each other.

  Leaf 65

  In the soft grey dawn we came running, feet hissing through the grass. We fell on the warriors of Bharata-Rahu, no music, no gongs, no songs, no parasols of office. I drove my sharpened sword deep into the bodies of slaves. Their muscles were so taut that the blade was gripped tight as wet wood closes on an axe. They flung off the blankets of sleep, and sprang to their feet, more ready to die than we were. With eyes as disarrayed as a nest of wasps, they came at us. Never give your enemy nothing to hope for. They embraced our swords. They hugged us as unseemly as public lovers, and killed us as they died. They latched onto our necks with lacerated arms and bit out our throats. It was as if Yama had suddenly stood up over the horizon, turning what had been sheltering darkness into his burning day.

  Leaf 66

  Our swords rose and fell like the rain. We waded through a swamp of blood, sinking in ooze, having to be mindful that the fallen men would still strike. They clawed and bit and kicked and would not be still so we cut them into pieces. The sun was hot when the rainfall of swords ceased to drum on the plain. We won, but oh what we also lost. I saw the Samtac fallen on his back, two peasants on him. They looked like boys wrestling. The peasants were dead, opened up like fruit fallen from the trees. The King's son blinked; he had clasped a hand over his throat. I knelt and said, “My Lord.” He looked at me in great sadness and regret, for his throat had been cut. He tried to speak but his only words were a welling of blood. Yama the devouring sun was full upon us.

  Leaf 67

  Bravely the Samtac faced his own death. How calmly he lay there, accepting that in this life he would never have his throne, his Kingship, his wife, or his children. He would have this swamp of blood, these flies, and these category people for companions. The Crown Prince could not speak. He could only choose the moment to move his hand. I called to our soldiers, saying, “Despair! The King's son is fallen.” They called back: Which one? For Sri Arjuna has fallen and Sri Dharadevapura has fallen. The Crown Prince Sri Indrakumara wept and he looked at me. His eyes said: the Servant did this. His eyes looked up at the sky and the clouds. Then he lifted his hand from his wound. There was a purifying fountain as if from the springs of Mount Meru, a fountain of cleansing royal blood. I held his hand as it washed over me.

  Leaf 68

  The Kumara's hand struggled and then fell still. I sat still listening to faraway birds in the trees, the birds of morning. Then I shouted for a chariot. Bellowing at the men in anger, I raged at them to move. I ordered all three of Yashovarman's sons to be taken home. I lifted up the vehicle for the royal soul into a chariot, and, holding him to me, I lashed the horses’ backs. We thundered over the broken land and the neglected road, and I spoke to the King's son. I spoke of my anger at the Servant. I raged at myself who was older and who was pledged to protect him, and who had failed him. I raged and the body did not answer, but kept its sad silence. I thought of all those who had died, and what was to follow. The floodplain of my soul was inundated with sadness.

  Leaf 69

  I canoe through that inundation of sadness now at the end of my days. I have canoed through all my other battles on that same lake of tears. For we are angels, we are demons, we can be anything we care to be, but when the blood dances, the blood spurts. And then tears follow. How I had admired my young friends, warmed at the thought of their virtues. How well my friend Yashovarman had filled the throne. How well he had peopled the world with noble sons. I learned then that many things are beyond prayer, beyond hope, and that this is why the Path lies in acceptance. I came to Yashovarman as the sun set, dust coating the blood of his son. Neither of us could speak, and we fell together weeping. How I longed for my home then! How I vowed never to fight a war again!

  But Yama rises each day with the sun.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  April 16, 2004

  Sinn Rith comes to arrest Map while it's still dark.

  Lying in his hammock, Captain Prey hears the roar of motorcycles. At first he thinks it's an airplane flying into the airport, but the sound is too prolonged and lacks the high-pitched whine of a jet.

  Prey swings out of his hammock and looks outside. On the other side of the south moat, along the main road, there is a blaze of headlights. His wife, puffy-faced and worried, has got up as well.

  He murmurs, “Mother, take the kids for a walk around the temple.” He goes to the cistern and pours water over his face and hands.

  Then he strolls out into the village.

  He sticks his head into each of the terraced rooms. “Get up, the army are coming,” he tells them. “Put on your uniform.” He pauses for a moment. “Take your guns."

  "Huh?” One them looks up, slack-jawed, his mouth a pit of fish and beer.

  "Just so they see we've got them.” Captain Prey pats the man's arm. “Quick, hurry, we must look ready."

  The man screws up his face. “Chubby's really done it this time."

  Across the moat on the Siem Reap road, batteries of lights play between the tree trunks. Prey thinks quickly. This can't be the main investigation; it must be the Siem Reap regiment. Captain Prey hears his men calling to each other. He sees them hopping one-footed out of their rooms, pushing on shoes.

  Prey smiles with fondness and sadness. They're good boys. Most of them were soldiers once.

  The motorcycles turn the corner of the moat and mill the dust of the roadway. It diffuses the glare of their headlights. They move onto the causeway to the Police Village, rocking over the ruts in the track. Captain Prey stands waiting, counting only ten headlights in all.

  One by one, Prey's men join him, sauntering up to stand beside their captain. Every hair is in place. They're doing this for Map, thinks Prey.

  There could be a fight.

  The army motorcycles fan out and come to a halt on the plain between the houses and the tiny restaurant.

  One by one the bikes fall silent. And there, sure enough, looking aggrieved, is Sinn Rith. Captain Prey calls out, “Hello, Lieutenant-Colonel!"

  "Hello,” says Rith, with no real politeness. “We want that man of yours."

  "Which one?” Prey indicates he has so many men, and that the army are invited to inspect them. They stand feet apart in ranks. They look ready, if not exactly military.

  "You know which one, don't get clever,” says Rith. Oh, yes, he's angry, like a little boy. A little boy with guns.

  "Sergeant Map is not here. He is working on the investigation. With some productive results."
<
br />   "Do you mind if we look for him?"

  "You can go into the temple and the park. Any Cambodian is welcome to visit the temples free of charge."

  Rith is not about to be humoured. “You should have turned Map over to us the moment he showed up. You haven't disciplined him; you protect him. Now we've come for him."

  Prey stands his ground, arms folded. He's shorter than Rith, older, with a bit of a potbelly, but he is on higher ground. “Does General Nhiek Kosal know you're doing this?"

  Rith's blank stare is enough to tell Prey that they are all in trouble.

  No one has felt it necessary to tell him another regiment now runs the investigation. He looks like he knows he's been sidelined, but no more than that, so he's here for a quick win, some kudos, and revenge.

  Prey says as gently as he can, “I think it would be wise for you to check first with General Nhiek Kosal."

  "That's army business. I'll tell him after we've made the arrest."

  Prey's face snaps shut, like as turtle's mouth. “Map had nothing to do with the theft. He thinks you'll arrest him and try to get information he doesn't have. You may hurt him. You'll certainly take him away from the investigation when we need him."

  Rith shakes his head. “We'll just see if he's here."

  "He's not."

  "Good. We will prove that.” Rith waves his men forward towards the village.

  Prey puts a hand out in front of Rith and stops him. “My men don't like this. Don't go into their homes. You'll turn things over. Both sides will want to be big men and have a fight."

  Rith's face is as immobile as stone, but he inclines his head back towards his men. “Don't mess up their homes. These are poor people, they don't have much."

  Captain Prey holds up a hand up to make sure his men stay put. “They will just go through our houses. Let them see we don't have Map."

  The houses are open, and bare. There's hardly anything to riffle through. Being on a rise, the houses are low off the ground. The soldiers crouch to look under floorboards, frightening out hens.

  Prey glances anxiously at his men. They paw the ground with their feet.

  Rith's men come back, shaking their heads.

  "I told you,” says Prey to Rith.

  The Lieutenant-Colonel does not answer him. He waves his senior officers over and huddles with them, murmuring.

  A sergeant starts issuing commands. “We're going to look through the woods inside the temple area. Sam, you take your men by the north track; Nunny, you take the south. Chea and I will look through the temple itself."

  A thudding of dust, crackling of twigs—seven of the soldiers move out through the gopura into the grounds of Angkor Wat.

  Ignoring Prey, Rith and two of his officers walk towards the policeman's café and sit down at the table. One of them has a bandaged nose.

  Rith says, “We will wait for this fat fellow to show up."

  Prey sits next to Rith. How to break the news about Nhiek Kosal to him gently? “Lieutenant-Colonel,” he says, “let me offer you some tea. This will be a day of surprises. For both of us."

  * * * *

  The old man comes back and gives Luc the Golden Book.

  Inside a battered old suitcase decorated with a New Zealand sticker are packets wrapped in newsprint. Luc peels back the paper and sees the torn, black-and-brown cloth, and he yelps.

  "Kraing Meas?” he asks.

  The old man doesn't answer. He reaches back onto the deck and tosses Luc a child's school notebook. “Get to work,” he says.

  Luc, dazed, turns the notebook over in his hands. It has a picture of a white rabbit on the cover.

  The old man jams a pencil into Luc's hands. “Turn it into modern Khmer."

  Luc's eyes boggle. All is confusion.

  The old man starts to look grumpy. “Start writing!"

  Luc swallows. Hands shaking, he gently pulls back more of the old newspaper. Inside the first packet are five whole, uncleaned brown rectangles of gold. He gently lifts one of them up. Inside the incised grooves are flakes of baked ink, just enough to make reading easier.

  He looks back down and counts 155 wrapped parcels, plus the ten torn circles in plastic envelopes. It's all there. “Do you want me to translate all of it?” Luc asks.

  "Depends on the time,” says the old man.

  The time before you have to shoot me?

  The old man settles into his favourite position in the prow. “Kru Luc! Teacher Reaches-Into! Reach fast. It's long, you'd better start.” The boys hand the old man his AK-47, and they unwind the tape from around the General's face.

  "Hey, Ko'hh,” the old man says to the General, clicking off the safety catch. Ko'hh means Unable to Speak. “Watch and learn, ah? We will have what Jayavarman tells us. But you will not. Neither will the Barang. We will have it, the people, not some museum, not some army, not some rich Thai banker."

  Luc says. “It would be better in pen. Pen will photocopy better. More people can read it."

  "Pen?” says the old man. “You think I'm a rich man?” The old man's face darkens. “Just write fast. Hey! Hey, Ko'hh, tell me why don't we know the language of Angkor? Why don't you people who run things educate the people? Why do you keep us down?"

  Vut finally says something. “There are many Cambodians who study history. We do what we can. We are trying to feed our families too. We work like you do, day in day out, just trying to have a clean place for our sons, a safe and happy place for our daughters."

  "Yeah, but you are higher up, you could do more."

  "I started out a maquis like you. I fought to bring Sihanouk back."

  Good, Vut, good. Talk to him.

  The old man almost spits. “Then you sided with the yuon."

  The General sounds softly pained. “The yuon beat the Americans. Pol Pot was being paid by the Americans. You tell me who a good Cambodian would fight with?"

  The old man laughs again. “There was no good Cambodian!"

  "Kong Sileah? He was a good man."

  The old man nods. “Hmmm. Yeah. But he was killed."

  The General says, “By you."

  Maybe I should not be listening to this, Luc thinks. He starts to work on the Book.

  The packets are entirely out of order and some of them have spilled open. The first packet was damaged, which makes it easier to spot, and Luc knows what it says at the beginning. He finds it, slumped somewhat sideways on top of other leaves.

  My name in death will be Parama Saugatapada.

  The General says, “Son Sann was another good man. You and the KPNLF had a lot in common. Both of you were against Sihanouk. Both of you were against the Vietnamese."

  "Son Sann? That elegant intellectual? He wanted to hand us over to the Americans!"

  "Who supported the Khmers Rouges after 1979."

  The old man laughs.

  My real name will never be written. For much of my life, I bore a King's title: Jayavarman.

  The old man says to Vut, “Anyway, we did beat America. We got them out in ‘75."

  "So why did you take their money?"

  "It was China's money. China is a good Communist Asian country. The US just wanted to stay friends with China."

  I am Jayavarman the something of a new....Dharma....way? morality? that overwhelms? pushes under? the....old and surmounts? overcomes? it. The old gods....had to listen to the big/great soul....Buddha....for enlightenment.

  I can do this, Luc thinks. It would be wonderful to do this. It would give the Book first to Cambodians. Something like this...

  Well...

  Doing something like this could make your whole life worthwhile. As quick and as tense as a breath, Luc begins to write.

  The General says, “We were just doing what other countries wanted us to do."

  "We agree on that,” says the old man with a suddenly sombre air.

  The second leaf is under the first, but not the third. The old man says, “So read me what it says."

  Luc feels something l
ike a wind move through him—all his Cambodian past. “You will have to help me,” he says. “Tell me what Cambodian people would really say in modern Khmer."

  Then Luc turns to the General to deliberately include him. “And you help me too."

  "Kru Luc,” says the old man with an unreadable face. He says it in the most complex way, as a tribute and a warning. Teacher Reacher, do not reach too far.

  Luc hears another female voice, his nurse old Kunthea. He always loved talking to Kunthea. He sees her in the kitchen making lunch forty years ago. Her voice warns him. Khla krap kóm tha khla sampéah.

  If the tiger lies down quietly before you, don't say it respects you.

  Wincing with pain, the General rolls over so that he can see the Book.

  Luc involves the old man. “So how can I say this in Khmer? I am Jayavarman, the....porter? of a new way?"

  "Bringer,” says the old man. He begins to help.

  * * * *

  William sees army officers in the police village, and he has Tan Map on the back of his motorcycle.

  Map chuckles. “Just keep going. This will be fun."

  Fun? The army motorcycles gleam like huge black insects, and the pickup trucks are there, full of boys who crouch in the back, looking miserable.

  Map laughs again. “Maybe we'll both spend the day in jail, motoboy!"

  Map looks terrible. He seems to have spent the night prodding his spots. They've gone a livid swollen purple. There are claw marks across his forehead the color of deep bruises. He looks like a gun has gone off in his face, and his speech is woozy with fatigue. And no, he did not eat anything at all last night.

  Does this man want to die?

  William can see three army officers around a table at the gateway café. They sit up, take their feet off the stools, and touch their comforting holsters.

  William looks back at the number of army motorcycles and thinks: where are the rest of the men?

  At least Map had stopped on the way back from Leung Dai. He walked into the forest and came out armed and in his uniform. The army won't know he goes through their roadblocks looking like a farmer. With the gloves off it's evident that his hands are infected now, yellow and purple.