by Geoff Ryman
Total silence for the count of five.
"Okay, who wants to do 150?” asks Map.
"I do,” says the rap kid. He talks Khmer like a foreigner. He's Khmer-American, Rith realizes. He got into trouble there, so they deported him to Cambodia, and now he's in trouble here.
The kid starts to bounce up and down and makes a kind of whooshing noise. Once he's going, he starts to drawl the words.
Bhaishajyaguru is NOT Buddha as Balual the horse who rescues sailors. He is NOT Buddha as Lokesvara, the creator.
He makes it sound dark and scary. He has an appetite for darkness that most Cambodians do not have.
This is the Buddha of the burned earth, the Buddha of the red land, the Buddha of the rain that turns to blood.
"A Buddha for us,” the boy interjects.
This is the Buddha of Forced Seeing who does not close his eyes and who is not serene. The Healing Buddha sits with his people through all their sufferings. He even sits with men who've committed the worst crimes, who no other aspect can help, for whom no hell is far enough away from heaven.
Even Rith can feel how close that shaves.
When everything else fails, Bhaishajyaguru is there.
"And this is Jayavarman Seven talking,” says the boy and makes a fist.
For I have lived beyond my time into my eightieth year and I have seen great temples rise from dust and great men fall into dust.
Some of the sitting skinny guys have their eyes closed. Their mouths move in time to the words. They know them too.
I have seen enemies become friends and then enemies again. Through all the waste and confusion, the motion is always onward, like wind over the heads of grain. With motion comes healing, which is acceptance.
Oh, Map is smart. He grins at Rith and says, “They know it. Some of them know the whole Book.” Map sighs. “I won't get out of here. But they will."
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April 1191
Over the trees and the smoke and noise of the City, the five great towers rose, covered in gilt: finished.
At the top of the temple of the royal palace gold curtains billowed; breezes stroked the forehead; there was a sound of birdsong. From here, looking out over the walls of the palace, the life of the City could be seen.
Princess Indradevi described it to her sister, who lay on a hammock. “The baby is still tugging at its mother's skirts. She wants that sticky rice. Oh, the mother is a nice lady. She's kneeling down now to talk to her. She's stroking the baby's hair and smiling, but Mother's child is not to be placated. The little one is still crying. She is pushing a fist into her eyes."
Indradevi turned and looked at her sister, who lay still and shrunken, with many layers of cloth wrapped around her. “Can you hear me, Sister?” asked Princess Indra.
Queen Jayarajadevi was able to flick her tongue. Yes. Go on.
It is a great sadness to see a younger sister die. Especially when you have lived with her until your own old age. When you have seen her coltish, gawky, and wayward. When you have seen her grow beautiful, strong, and graceful. Saddest of all when you have seen her flower into someone who is absolutely exceptional in her intellectual accomplishments. When you have led her extreme soul back onto a true Path and watched her help make an empire, becoming its leader in spirit.
You watch as the petals fall. As naturally as a beautiful orchid, the body grows sad and starts to drop away.
"Oh! The mother and child have gone on. I fear we will never know now if the child ever got her sticky rice."
The story goes on after us, and we never know the end. If there ever is an end.
"Two Chinese traders have come up to the stall owner. Devils! They don't want sticky rice; they want to talk to her because she is pretty. She is pretending interest. She smiles. She leans forward. She is not afraid of them. Oh! One of them is stroking his goatee!"
There was a sarika bird in the top of a silk-cotton tree, looking at them sideways.
But oh, Sister, you are not falling like fruit, naturally ripe.
You are dying of a broken heart.
"Oh, ‘Sri, our City is so beautiful. The King's new central temple is already rising over the trees, and the City itself is restored. The birds are back, and the homes are all new and strong, and the park is full of monks, meditating among the horses."
Indradevi searched her sister's crumpled, yellow face. “We did so much."
The sarika bird called, as if asking a question.
"Did you hear the bird, Sister? Such a beautiful bird. It is singing to us."
It is singing you to your death.
The anger came again, and Princess Indradevi bunched her fists to fight it. That man, that stupid, stupid man. In the end he is just a man; it is not for us to judge; he is a king and falls victim to the vices of kings, the things they must do. We must not hate, we must not let the world hold sway. Life, death, self, all of them are a willed illusion.
But he must have known that you were delicate. He must have had to consider what it would do to you.
And your stupid son should have given consideration too.
Indradevi spoke of other things. “Oh, and the monkeys are back too. They're sitting under the new trees and they have got hold of a monk's alms bowl. ‘Sri! They look like they are asking for alms. People have seen them and are laughing. They keep licking their fingers, to see if there is any food on them. Oh! Now one of them is eating the bowl. Ha ha! He's cracking it with his teeth."
Men. Something happens to people when they pass into male bodies.
"One of the temple boys has seen them, and he's coming with a long cane to chase them away. Oh! ‘Sri! One of the monkeys has snatched his cane!"
I want to say something to ease my sister's heart. All I can think of are the small things that she can no longer see. I want to say something that will make her open her eyes, smile, eat, and recover.
I suppose I should be joyful, for I am sure that at the very least she will pass on to a higher life even than this one. Even if she has never achieved her great goal, to reach Nibbana, to clear her mind of self. She came nearer than anyone else I know.
I should be joyful, I should be mindful, but I am flawed and the world is flawed. And so I suffer.
I may as well speak what is in my heart.
"I am angry, ‘Sri. I am so angry it floods my heart and my mind. I lose all concentration and mindfulness, even the beauty of the City is not enough to restore me. I am so angry at your husband, I cannot speak of it without sputtering with rage!"
With less strength than the breeze through the temple-top pavilion, the Queen's hand squeezed hers.
"I'm sorry. I am being selfish, but oh, Sister, this is the worst thing I have ever had to bear!"
The Queen's reply was absolute stillness. Nothing. It means nothing. Her stillness seemed to say: It is how life is, ‘Sru. Along with the wind through the leaves, the sounds of birds, the warming hand of the sun. Just life.
Her cheeks were a terrible shade of yellow, her eyes shadowed, her mouth a string of muscle. Queen Jayarajadevi seemed to say: it did not start with injustice.
Indradevi thought: You will always defend him, but yes. He made many great actions, such as no other Universal King had ever before made.
The King had named his enemy his heir. He made the Cham prince his Crown Prince. A very great good, but the King's son Suryakumara turned against his father. He left the Path, and announced he would be a Hindu king.
And the King did what Kings do with troublesome princes. He sent his own son to war crowded round with gold parasols, to draw arrows.
It was not the death of your son that did this to you, Queen. It was the death of your King, the King you thought you had created, a King like no other. He turned out to be just like all the others. He arranged for the death of your son. And then turned his back on the Cham prince as well. Policy.
And so you turned towards Nibbana. You turned away from this world, towards death. The fate
that had been awaiting you all your life swallowed you up. You starved yourself.
And that is not the Path.
And so you die losing even Nibbana.
But you were great, my sister. You ruled as much as the King did and with far more wisdom and far more vision. Now he's made Rajendradevi his First Queen. Well, he had to as she is mother of the heir, but everyone knows, all the people, what you accomplished in this world. And as for the next, even if you do not join God, you will be celestial. His mother, his father, oh they are all made aspects of the Buddha. You, what honor will he do you? In death.
Indradevi said aloud, “Oh, my sister, I will build houses for the poor and I will dedicate all that merit to you. I shall write great inscriptions, I shall tell the world of your virtues and your holy actions. I will make sure that you are remembered!"
I hope merit will keep you from sinking in the samsara for having starved yourself to death.
And Sister, oh Kansri, where will I be in this life without you? You have always been here. The whole world will go silent without you. And I will be an old spinster lady, with shadows under her eyes, and a shadow in her womb, some aunty trying to hold us all on the Path.
Listening to the birds and the wind in the leaves for comfort.
Why am I making you hold on? For myself? I will have to be brave and alone sooner or later.
Indradevi said, “Kansri? You have my permission to die. If your heart is broken and you are alone and we are not enough to keep you, if you yearn for your next life. Then go. Go on. We will remember you. We will always love you. Your spirit flies like a bird."
On the ground, in the City, the stall owner was still teasing one of the Chinese merchants. Who had evidently charmed her. Oxcarts full of onions and herbs arrived for the market.
Princess Indradevi said, just to keep talking, just to give herself comfort, “The university is being consecrated today."
* * * *
The King had finally found his Crown Prince.
It was one of his sons. This was a late surprise to the various generals, allies, war-mates, and fellow seekers after the truth.
It was his son, little Chubby, now with the full kingly honorific of Indravarman. No halfway “kumara” for him.
And Indravarman was beautiful.
He was tall and straight, but had his father's bulk; and in low sunlight, he was the color of a perfect, smooth-skinned apricot. Golden. He loved talking to people; he was good at fighting; he was smart but not so clever that he made things anguished or complicated. He was like the rising sun. His father Jayavarman looked at him long and gratefully, smiling with pride.
Rajapati looked at Prince Indravarman with an ache in his heart.
Only fourteen and certain of kingship. From their glances and approving nods, the people love him too. Only fourteen and able to speak to them like his father, at a moment's notice, eloquently, from the heart.
Rajapati had long ago given up talking to people at all. It only caused trouble.
Able to run, able to fall in love, able to attract people, and hold them. They loved looking at him. Even Rajapati loved looking at him, but with yearning and a sense of loss from which he knew he would never escape. He would have to learn to accept.
Even now, the Crown Prince was rowing the barge, chatting quietly to the rower in front of him. Learning boatcraft? His shoulders, which were already taking on the outline of a fully grown man's, swelled and contracted with a simplicity that made Rajapati want to write an ode to the perfection of the human body. Some human bodies.
Oh, what did I do in a previous life to deserve this?
Perhaps you were a perfect prince who was cruel to cripples.
The boat eased up to the dock. Today was the consecration day of yet another grandiose complex made of stone and other people's sweat. Jayavarman the magnificent flung up his arms to welcome the sight, the men, their arrival. Had he grown taller? Father, you look as big as the moon.
Jayavarman spun and held out his hand towards his son, the only son there who counted. The King's whole face beamed hope and love. The boy grinned back and slipped neatly like a dancer through the rowers down to his father, who seized his hand and held it up.
Look at this boy, isn't he the picture of a king?
The rowers chuckled. The boy beamed back.
He's like a horse being inspected. Perfect teeth, good strong haunches.
Don't try to be humorous, Rajapati. Everybody else gave up listening thirty years ago.
Oh, look, the little dear can laugh. Cheerful, aren't you, Indra? It isn't your mother who's dying, is it, Chubby? Oh no, your mother has done her job properly. Just like a sow. Multiple piglets. And she's First Queen now, it says so on that inscription stone. Queen Rajendradevi, mother to the future king.
Oh God, she'll probably want to teach just like Jayarajadevi. It will be like a pig talking.
Ho, ho, endless amusement. Alone inside your head, Rajapati.
The King sighed in satisfaction with his prince and shook the boy's shoulder, looking at his perfect head with love.
Oh, oh, oh, thought Rajapati, to have had even a glimmer of that from you, Father. I suppose that was what I've wanted all these years.
Rajapati was trapped in a kind of palanquin, scaled down to his size. It looked like a toy. For form's sake, two people carried it, though it was so light one bearer would have done. But two were better at keeping the twisted little bundle inside it quiet.
God, I am so sick of sitting curled up here with my own thoughts. Everybody speedily glancing away to avoid looking at me.
Well, put me away then. Don't drag me out on these occasions; I don't like being gawked at. I didn't ask to be born like this. I didn't ask to be clever, just so that I could fully appreciate how wasted my life is. I didn't ask to be put on public display so that everyone could say: oh, look how generous the King is to that half-human bundle in the box.
Shut up, ‘Pati.
You're envious that's all. And you have so very much to be envious about. In addition to looking like a lump of driftwood, you're bitter and mean-minded. You're not even a pleasant person.
In addition to being an affront to very nearly every sense except the olfactory...
....or maybe even that since the maids douse me in so much perfume. They assume I'm this way because I'm diseased, like a leper, and so I must smell.
Just shut up.
Oh good, my box is moving. Something is happening. To me. Don't cheer all at once, grateful population.
The beautiful Indravarman rocked and rolled his way down the plank onto the landing. He walked next to the King as an equal, talking fervently about something.
Watch out, little Chubby. That man next to you? He looks nice.
But he kills crown princes. He might kill you too.
Don't you just wish, Rajapati?
The various dignitaries stood with their studious backs towards Rajapati and his deformities, waiting their turn to follow the King down the gangplank.
With a weariness of the soul, Rajapati realized that he quite sincerely wanted to die.
Really. It would be a kindness, and so easy. Just drop me over the side, like a bird pooping. Plop! Into the water and two minutes later it will all be over.
Silence. Simplicity. Dark. Quiet. I've accumulated not a feather's weight of merit, but at least I don't think I've done enough harm to burn in hell for ever.
As the palanquin bounced down the gangplank, Rajapati promised to kill himself.
We can have a double funeral, me and the Queen. Save on expenses.
No, no, why diminish the Queen? Nice lady and she's had a bad enough time of it lately. Even my shrivelled little heart feels sorry for her.
No, ‘Pati, you'll just have to hang on a few days longer.
In which case, I might as well have it out with the King.
Yes.
I'll finally make that scheming old roostershit talk to me. And then I'll die.
Now will
you just shut up and enjoy the show?
* * * *
At the end of the dock, the King turned and said, “We'll wait for the workmen to come."
All the lords, mratlans, and the monks and princes had to stand in place. Wind stirred their garments. Some of the Brahmins gave each other meaningful looks. They disapproved of this continual mingling of categories. In silence.
From within the new complex, the sparkling sound of chisels ended.
The workers came lumbering down towards the dock as if to see one of their fellows. They were burned black by the sun, polished like driftwood by toil. They came wiping their hands and faces. The King strode forth to greet them as if they were ambassadors from China. He smiled and called them by name. The men bowed and bowed again. Indravarman was presented to them, and they bowed even lower.
The little dear asked them if they were tired, working so hard.
One of the men chuckled, gap-toothed. “We are so happy to do this! It is another great labour!"
Could that possibly be true? That they were happy to labour on temple after temple? And on that great surrounding wall? On the new university, library, and administration block that rose behind them?
They chatted with the King and then with easy grace remembered their manners and the occasion. They bowed and strolled into the lake, to purify themselves. They poured water over their heads.
The King's face crumpled with love. He announced to the lords, “When we won the battle, the men washed their faces too. They poured water over themselves. It was like this. Just like this."
Another barge with a carved Naga on the prow raised its oars and settled next to the landing.
Again the King mixed formal with informal. Honored generals, Brahmins, and little princes hopped, relaxed, out of the barge. The King strode back up the dock to meet them. With his implacable smile, he looked like one of the guardian statues.
The King greeted the new arrivals, and then, when he was sure the workmen had bathed, he marched all the superior people across the churned earth of the banks, and through a mist of rock dust.
