The King's Last Song

by Geoff Ryman

  The men flicked their heads back and grinned.

  Jaya clapped his hands and did a dance on the howdah that would have been daring in a peaceful ramble let alone the lurch and upset of battle.

  The General, the troops, the shield bearers, the archers, the footsoldiers all roared at him. Inspired, a cavalryman stood up on the bare back of his horse and he danced as well.

  Jayavarman clapped again. “Your mother commands, your father commands, your little sister commands! Onward, Khmers! Onward!"

  His General clapped his back as if they had always been the best of friends. Jaya scanned the eyes of his men. They glowed like a bushfire. He was the spark. Flame seemed to leap from head to head.

  He howled, and waved them on. They howled back. And together they swept ahead.

  They charged the palace elephants and battle was joined.

  Great rolling boulders of Khmer elephants avalanched into the ready Cham lines. Arrows hurtled through the air trailing blood behind them. It was a broil of combat.

  Headlocks, grappling on the ground, axes rising and falling in waves, the creaking of the ropes of crossbows, the sudden singing of arrows, the sweeping passes of horsemen against horsemen.

  They trampled blood-red mud. They slipped and lost their footing. They stumbled over the lubricated dead.

  They seemed to be pressed together, bursting from the pressure. They were an explosion of overripe fruit, spurting blood and souls like white dandelion fluff spiralling up into the air.

  Floods of blood, blood in puddles, blood oiling the surface of the ground, blood in fountains gushing out of the chests or mouths of elephants. The great beasts collapsed onto their knees as if worshipping Kali, bowing to death, Yama.

  The terrible, fiery smell of human insides—the blood, the mucous, the shit all opened up—presented a spicy dish that overturned the senses and made the head buzz and ache.

  The very air had teeth, spears and arrows. The ground roiled, a treacherous mass of red serpents. Holy fathers of all, the battle would mill them all to paste!

  Formation? Horses mixed with men who mixed with elephants. They were a swirling fog of flesh and flailing arms, pushing, jamming, jabbing until the whole motion was not one of pushing forward, or retreating, but a rhythmic, helpless juddering that was most like a coughing fit.

  Juddering to a halt.

  Unable to move, unable to lift an arm or a shield, unable to reach the enemy or to duck their blows, the soldiers could see the men who aimed arrows at their heads. But they could not duck or raise a shield. Their eyes met before the arrows flew.

  Live bodies, dead bodies, both were held upright in place by weight of numbers.

  In the front line, men were pushed onto a bristling of weapons as if being fed to sharks. Swords tore them apart in a moment. They were husked, rendered from their bodily integrity, scattered in trails.

  God, how could human beings smell so foul inside! Blood and flesh must be putrescent to stink so.

  The horses stared like mad things, their eyes strained white. Their mouths drooled froth. They trod flesh like water, mad only to escape. The elephants shook like whole planets about to tumble out of the heavens.

  Animal panic whipped them—get away, get away, get away! One of the elephants was mired in blood, sinking into a marsh of it.

  Panic found a voice. The elephants made a sound like pigs caught under an oxcart wheel. The horses cawed like old ladies, or snorted like oil lamps exploding.

  The two sides ground each other like rice for noodles. Neither could move. This was unendurable.

  Then Jaya saw movement, through the dust, sweeping around the forest.

  It was like a damburst he had once seen rushing down a gully. The current had borne trees and oxcarts. Jaya blinked. This current of people bore:

  Shovels.

  Picks.

  Saws for cutting stone.

  The slaves were coming. The nia were fighting for them. His eyes watered, sluicing away dust, and the King saw the people: old, stooped, young, thin, the enduring people of the fields.

  Jaya felt his heart swell like clouds. His heart rose up.

  "The nia!” the King wailed. “The nia have joined us! The pual have joined us. They fight with shovels! They fight with hand ploughs! Press on! Press on!"

  There was an answering roar. All his men, pressed so tightly together they could not move as individuals, all stepped forward in unison. They were a great wall, a great weight.

  The Chams shuddered all together. They strained like a giant bolted door of slate.

  Air, soil, breastplates, bones, flesh—all of it shook in waves. Then broke.

  The slate door splintered. The ranks of the Chams were shot backwards, scattering.

  Flailing, slipping, thrusting, the Khmer pushed on.

  The footmen hauled their feet out of the slough of blood. They wore slippers of blood, blood that upholstered their feet and stitched dust into soles.

  Peasants and flowered nobles, arrows and peasant axes pressed on, gained speed and gave chase together. The Khmer cavalry, finally given space, charged, sweeping down onto the Chams.

  Jaya turned to Vid and said, “We are avenged."

  "Yes,” said Vidyanandana. But his eyes were full of pain. Lotus helmets were sunk in mud and the ground was burnished with blood.

  The dead lay everywhere, up and down the whole trail of battle, like the pathway of a giant snail, its underside torn to pieces on ash.

  Silence descended. From somewhere in the direction of the palace, smoke trailed up in thin wisps.

  Then, shrill and tuneful at the same time, came the songs of the camp women. They flitted among the dead to gather up arrows or lances. The cheerful wives of horse-keepers and musicians and cooks pressed arrows running with blood into the hands of the messenger boys.

  The King's elephant strode on towards the palace. The pavilions were burning, varnish flowering into red, the dark smoke reeking of sap. Jaya saw the heavy, crude carvings of their shared deities. The Chams had not even used Khmer craftsmen. The deities glowed red and orange.

  The chases continued as the sun set. The smoke from the palace was dark, as if thousands of crows rose in the sky. Chams of rank were pulled forward to be inspected. None of them was the Cham King. Had he escaped? More likely he was a broken, shorn body, somewhere in the morass.

  To appease his Cham allies, Jaya put Vidyanandana in charge of taking prisoner those Chams who were left alive.

  The General sniffed in distaste. “We can't camp here. The ground. It's all blood."

  The earth smelled of death. All around the burning palace a moat of something dank and dark like oil reflected the flames.

  "A lake,” said the King. “A lake of blood."

  His jaw thrust out. “Come on,” he said. “Let us see what is left of our City."

  Leaf 85

  I called to the brave soldiers, the courageous men. I said to them, all the reservoirs are stained with blood. We have little sweet water. First we will wash with the water and then we will drink it. We will drink each other, but then we have shared so much already. The deserving warriors plunged their elbows into the cisterns and poured the water over their heads into their mouths. I said to the women, prepare a feast, a feast from nothing, boil rice flour into dumplings, bake the dried fish on skewers. Nia and pual came with herbs and other good things. The women brought bowls of food, singing. The hungry men ate. Come, Comrades, I said, let us have games of fighting with blunted lances. Let no one be injured, let all enjoy. They fought each other in quilted jackets and they smiled. The musicians beat gongs and drums and blew the conch shell. The sons of Kambu danced beside the lake of blood. They had won. They were home.

  Leaf 86

  I thought of Suryavarman who left no heirs. I had a fierce and noble son who was incomplete, and a Kumara who was strong but a devotee of Siva. So I called for the noble Vidyanandana without parallel, the son of Jaya-Harideva. I asked him to climb up beside me and I said t
o all my warriors, look at this great prince and ally who today saved my life once on water and once on land. Look at the brave soldier and noble prince. Does anyone doubt that this is a man of wisdom and spirit? Does anyone doubt that he is our ally? The assembled gave assent, cheering Vidyanandana. It was then that I first thought I might make a Cham my heir, to join the Kingdoms in peace. A year later, after his service in Malyang, I gave Vidyanandana the title of Yuvaraja, another form of Crown Prince. I made a Cham my son.

  Leaf 87

  I walked through my dead city, burned years before. The Aerial Palace stared through charred foundations like the sockets of a skull. I heard the echoing laughter of childhood friends. I saw my beautiful Cat as a child slave polishing floors. I heard the giggling of Jayarajadevi as a girl. I saw a plump little fellow run and wondered: who is that? In the upper floor, made of stars and spider webs, sat Yashovarman, King. His hands crawled over his face, thinking of betrayal and of his own weakness. In the lower floors towered Suryavarman. Like a giant mantis he lifted up his arms in blue moonlight, speaking in a voice like dust. You have come home, my son. Our City has been burned and you are fifty years old, and I never thought you would be King, though I loved you. This is why I made myself a god, so I could go on learning.

  Leaf 88

  I saw the faces of my burnt people wandering through their burnt streets. They could only rustle like leaves in the wind. They could only stare as they have always stared: hungry, bewildered, and angry. Poor homeless spirits! Boys in the trees who threw mangoes, fathers in the streets, mothers selling flour from stalls, all of you whose homes, names, hopes, and loves were destroyed by the foolishness of kings, I mourn for you. I promise you that everything will be restored. I see a golden window in a new hall. All people, no categories enforced, will come and make their cases, demanding justice. The making of justice will be my main work. I felt the world turn about me for I had spoken to the past, and made a promise to the future. I saw both laid out before me like shadows on the forest floor. I felt the moon turn around the earth, the sun move through the sky and stars. They all joined hands to hold the universe together. In this way, in moonlight, I was at the center of the world.

  Leaf 89

  The fires smouldered; the dawn came quietly. Over the tops of the trees I saw the great Vishnuloka, the eternal prayer of stone. I saw Mount Meru, and the royal mountain. It was then that I said, all this is past. Now there will be a new beginning. I will make a new city here. I will rebuild the wooden pavilions. I will build new temples on new models and I will encircle Yashodharapura, all of it, with a great wall so that none may overwhelm it again. I began in a slow way to be joyful. I gave praise to the Gods and I counted the time I had left. I realized that this happens to all men. We all visit the ruined palace of our face, our friends, our youth, and start again.

  It was my people who did the starting.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Season of Drought and Sweating

  Map loves prison.

  They live four to a cell and are locked in with a bucket behind an iron door. It's hot and it stinks. The tiny window is blocked by their clothes, which they wash in the same bucket and hang out to dry. The food regime is brutal: rice if you're lucky, and soup if you're not. Everything that Map likes.

  Map is scared of no one. He enjoys a good fight and gives back whatever anyone gives him four times over with a gleaming smile. He's one of the scariest guys in the place, but he's also sane. Doesn't start fights, but ends them.

  It's April again, New Year, and Sinn Rith comes to visit Map.

  Rith's not sure why he keeps coming. When someone bears injustice with such equanimity, you have to respect them.

  It was a hard story to believe. An old woman comes walking out of the rain and hands you a translation of the Kraing Meas. You don't know her name or address, and she can't be found.

  If only the translation had been wildly inaccurate. But it matched the photographs of the Book. You or someone must have had the Kraing Meas. Where is it? they kept asking. And you just laughed.

  "We're going to get nowhere,” you said, as if it were all some kind of celestial joke.

  Visitors and prisoners mingle in the big hot concrete courtyard. In one corner, some of the guys play saprak takwa, kicking a badminton cock. Some of the kids practice sounding like beatboxes and rapping. Rith and Map stroll together round and round the yard as if on Sivutha Street.

  Rith is dismayed by Map's appearance. His long fingernails are starting to curl round on themselves, and the red thread on his wrist has turned into a kind of beaded amulet. His hair is long, matted, and held by hair grips, and there are all kinds of paraphernalia dangling from his neck, including a pigeon feather and a beer-bottle cap.

  "Map, you look like a crazy man,” says Rith.

  "Yep. Good crazy,” says Map, and holds out his arms and smiles, as if welcoming the sun, the dry concrete, and the smell of sweat. “Do those idiots still think Professor Luc Andrade stole the Book?"

  "Oh. His colleagues go all quiet when he is mentioned. He is dead, after all. I think they have decided not to decide. The police? Well, they have all the convictions they can use.” Rith laughs and shakes his head. “They arrested everybody. Motoboys, people on the docks, half of Clean Hen, Saom Pich's wife! They were so scared of losing the tourists. They just wanted to show everybody how safe Siem Reap is."

  "How quiet it is, with all those people in prison."

  "William asked how you were. I said I didn't know, but I'd see you and let him know."

  Map laughs, and imitates Rith. “Map's gone crazy! All the pressure has driven him mad."

  Rith persists. “Do you have anything you want me to say to him?"

  Map pauses and tries to think of something emotional to say and dissolves into giggles. “Tell him I wish he was here! No, no, no, don't say that!” Map's voice goes quiet and businesslike. “How is he?"

  "He got married. Did you hear? To a cousin of his. He found an Australian university that does degree courses on the Internet. The UN dig team helps him a lot, they let him use their computers. So he's going to university at last.” Rith shakes his head. “I've asked him to talk to my layabout son."

  Map's eyes are dim but his smile is thin as if satisfied and his head rocks from side to side. “I told him. I said, he would have all kinds of good luck, just so long as he stayed away from me."

  "Why is that?” There is something Rith doesn't understand. William asks after Map, but doesn't come to see him. All the time Rith talks to him about Map, William looks edgy and unquiet, trapped in his own house. “Are you bad luck for everybody, or just him?"

  Map tells him, almost serenely. “I killed his parents."

  Rith's eyes sag shut. He has to hide them with his hand. “I didn't know that."

  "Neither did he for a while.” Map looks cheerful. “So it's pretty good going that he can even talk about me without hatred. William,” says Map with finality, “is an advanced spirit."

  With a twinge, Rith realizes that Map has been able to say that with absolute authority.

  They will kill him eventually, when they think nobody's looking.

  Which is another reason for Rith coming to visit, in his army uniform. Some respectable people are watching.

  Map leads Rith sauntering towards the shady wall. Some of the guys are terrible-looking fellows with deep creases in their cheeks, broken teeth, stained shorts, missing hands, knife wounds, faces as immobile as pig's behinds. They shift very slightly to let Map pass.

  Rith has to control a little tremor of fear.

  "Has the Book been published yet? Did that printer I gave it to do anything with it?"

  Rith shrugs. “I don't know about books."

  Map's eyebrows wiggle. “I do. Books aren't necessary when you have a people. Books grow out of people, and if you have the people first, the books will trail after them."

  They make their way to a small group of men sitting on the ground. They do n
ot look nearly as threatening as some of the others. Skinny little guys, here for drug offences probably, or pimping. They all wear red threads around their wrists. Map squats down to talk, and tugs at Rith's trousers.

  "Okay, roostershits, listen up. This is my good friend Sinn Rith. He fought in the wars; he told people at the trial that I was a good man, full of remorse. But despite that, he's clever.” The men chuckle. Most of them have lost teeth, and there is a kind of self-protective air about them. They're a group, Rith thinks. Map's little band.

  "If anybody hurts him, I promise you, I'll make him eat his own testicles.” Map makes a slitting gesture with his fingernails. The men chuckle again. “Then I'll make him eat yours!” More laughter. Map's voice goes husky and insinuating. “Only gently, so you like it.” They hoot with shock.

  These are the guys who can't rely on brawn or sheer cruelty. These are the guys who make bad drawings to pass the time, or act in plays or weave cloth.

  Around them, the courtyard plays on, huddled around cards or dice, or doing push-ups. One of the rap guys is strolling over, handkerchief tied over his head, blue football shirt in his hand.

  "Okay,” says Map. “Yesterday we got near the end. Last two. I go first?” A murmur of assent. In a low, slow voice, sounding like he's playing a game of dominoes for money, Map starts to talk.

  There's an aspect of the Buddha that can't be carved in stone. An image of him would need to be carved in the wind, because he is always moving, sweeping his arms over the heads of the grain. This is Bhaishajyaguru who heals. The smile of the Healing Buddha is not distant and calm, but crumples into weeping. His eyes are not closed in meditation, but are startled open, thick along the lower edge with tears.

  Map mimes it, the crumpled lower lip that still smiles, the wide stare. It's a look that Rith recognizes. From knowing Map.

  The Healing Buddha is small. He is the pattern on the wings of a butterfly. He is the scales on the gecko's feet. Children work in the fields hammered by heat and they hear him. He whispers to the gleaners who sift the straw. He shivers in the April flowers. Bhaishajyaguru reminds us of the variety and sweetness of the world, as it was in the past and will be again, even when men have made it stink of charred wood and drying blood.